


Breaking Time

by BloodstainedBlonde



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Abuse, Betrayal, Drug Addiction, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Themes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Past/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Recovery, Referenced Underage, Slow Build, Suicidal Themes, Trust Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 37
Words: 246,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodstainedBlonde/pseuds/BloodstainedBlonde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How does that old saying go? <em>Home is where the heart is?</em></p><p>Wash never had a home. He never had a place to grow up or people to get attached to. Maybe he did, once, but it doesn't matter anymore. He escaped from a cell in an underground fighting ring that put kid against kid in a fucked up fight to survive, and landed right into another. </p><p>The Blood Gulch Juvenile Detention Centre for Boys. </p><p>This time, though, there's Tucker. There's Caboose and Grif and the rest of the group and as much as they all say they hate it, at least they have each other. And now there's Wash, who's as paranoid as Grif is sarcastic and defensive as Caboose is strange. There's problems and insecurities and really bad jokes, and underneath it all, the chance for Wash to find a home. </p><p>Because home is where the heart is, right?</p><p>(UPDATED WEEKLY)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. running is a victory

**Author's Note:**

> So some of you may know this fic has been in the works for a very long time now. In this time I've developed a lot as an author, and to reflect that, I've made several changes throughout the story — all for the better, and none with long term impacts on the story. I've got the end of this work on the horizon, and I welcome any new readers who decide to give this a chance. 
> 
> Please let me know any thoughts you have on it. At the end of the fic are works inspired by this one, as well as several links to art drawn for the story by varying wonderful people, and I cannot encourage enough going to take a look. Supporting those who pour their time and effort into art, stories, and just fan work in general is so important. So please, check it out, and enjoy the fic!

Wash’s eyes tracked the hand in his peripheral vision as it rose.

Tension twisted and thickened in the air around him and he leant forward, up onto the balls of his feet. Ready. 

 _Waiting_. 

There was a grip around his shoulders, tight and unnecessary; a distraction, because no matter how many times he experienced it, it left his skin crawling, the back of his neck prickling hotly with the urge to tear away and run. He didn't, because he couldn't, so he forced the thought down until it joined the molten lead ball of emotions in his stomach. Despite how badly he wanted to, how he _always_ wanted to, he knew it wasn't a risk he could take.

Breaking a rule like that at such a crucial time wouldprove deadly, because he knew the rules and he knew what would happen if he didn’t obey them. 

The hand in the air wavered slightly, just enough to make Wash refocus onto the situation ahead. He tensed, ignored the hands as they tightened, and readied himself in preparation. His own hands were raised into their defensive positions, curled into tight fists in front of his body, and his legs threatened to tremble with the adrenaline flowing through him. He knew not to strike yet, knew to wait until the signal, but still he felt impatience build within him as the hand wavered once more, a clear indication of what was about to happen.

It lingered for another second in the air, what felt like an eternity coming and going in the seconds that Wash waited, willing it to begin, so that it could end again. He had nothing to look forward to; he just ached for this part to be over, so that if he won, he could return to his cell and nurse his wounds in the darkness, and wait for the inevitable — to face another boy, and start the dance of life and death once more.

He knew he might not get off that easy this time, because the boy that stood opposite him looked just like he did. With black hair and eyes not quite deadened by the life he’d clearly been living for a long time, he was scarred, bruised and battered, broken and barely held together. Just like Wash. He knew it meant it wasn't going to be easy.

 _This one_ , he thought, _might be to the death._

He swallowed hard, zoned his gaze completely on the boy in front of him and forced himself to shut out the cheering, to ignore the crowd pressing in around him, suffocating him. Eternity passed in the slow blink of an eye, and both boys shifted forward in readiness, until the hand flew down and everything exploded into movement.

Wash shot into action, hand already curled into a fist as he launched his first punch at the attacker. The boy moved back, waited till Wash was near him and thrust out with an elbow. Wash ducked, felt it go sailing overhead, and just as fast he was back on the offensive, searching for openings, a place for him to strike. Several shots were thrown, but they were just tests, looking for strengths and weakness, searching out holes in their defenses.

When the other boy launched a kick that was strong but slightly off in aim, Wash found exactly what he was looking for, and bypassed grabbing his leg for throwing himself into the larger boy's space and forcing him backwards. When he stumbled, Wash tried to take his legs out from under him, but he’d underestimated the other boy’s weight — he didn’t have enough force in the movement to take him all the way down. He aborted his movement and flung himself back, barely avoiding knocking into the crowd that had moved forward behind him. He spat out a curse and moved away, away from the grasping hands and writhing bodies of the drunken spectators behind him.

It was always so fucking _crowded_. 

A constant battle of itself, seperate from the physical fight but intwined still in how it was part of surviving. He'd seen enough boys go down underneath the spectators to know keeping his distance was vital, even if it meant putting himself at risk in a different way. Even now, his punch had been avoided, but barely.

The boy was faster than Wash had accounted for. Normally, the bigger they were, the slower they moved, but nobody stayed around as long as they did without picking up the skills they needed to overcome their weaknesses. Once, Wash had been weak and slow, but now he moved with a speed that was rarely matched, and he held enough strength in his wiry muscles to create a deadly combination.

That didn't mean, however, that he never met his match. 

He swung underneath the fist thrown at him and threw his leg out, connected it with the exposed kneecap in front of him and danced out of reach. The boy grunted, swore, picked up his attack. Wash matched his pace, holding back until he could find an opening and taking it quickly. His strikes were quick and brutal, but in turn, so were the ones that got through his defences and landed on him. 

His ribs ached, his ears rang incessantly, and he'd pulled something in his shoulder, but still he fought on. 

Every strike that he avoided or blow that he blocked was more time passed and more energy consumed. While he wasn't on the offensive, he could keep up his actions for a long time, slowly but surely tiring out his opponent until he created the best opportunity for him to finish it, however it came. He'd gouged out eyes and slit throats without hesitation before. He just had to find the right moment, if nothing else came up.

 _Things_ , he thought, as a bottle smashed into the floor beside him, often came up. 

It was never enough. Unless he started the fight raging, attacking with a bloodfuelled violence that left very little but destruction and pain in its wake—

They wanted more. Until someone was bleeding and broken and unmoving on the floor, they wanted more, and they wouldn't stop until they got it. The life he lived seemed destined to kill him, as if the time he spent in the middle was a game that never really had a winner.

He'd seen opponents taken out by crowds enough; seen them go down and be trampled underfoot. Had seen them be _taken_ down, purposefully knocked or dragged to the floor if they just weren't good enough. 

And nobody was ever good enough. It had happened to all of them, Wash was sure, one thing or another that showed that for all they gave they should have given more. He himself had faced it, several times over, with the scars to show for the very real chance he had of meeting his end. 

A smattering of gouges on his shoulder blade, where somebody had hit him from behind with a wooden board covered in nails. 

The half scar on his back, just above his left kidney, where he'd disappointed the spectators by surviving for too long. 

The hatred he held of ever turning his back to anyone.

Narrowly, he ducked one last swing, watched it go wide, and twisted so he was in a position to use the boy's momentum to throw him forward and into the crowd. They dispersed just in time to see the kid hit the glass littered floor, and Wash was on him in a heartbeat, punch after punch slamming into his cheek, his nose, his jaw.

His lip split under Wash's fists, his nose started gushing out blood. His teeth gave way into his throat but still Wash could tell that he wasn't going to stay down. It took him several seconds to regain himself, but then he was up, shoving Wash backwards and rolling away to climb to his feet. It was small, but his actions were a giveaway. Wash had seriously hurt him, because he hadn't immediately jumped back into the attack. 

They got to their feet at the same time, and Wash was first to move. He flew forward, his elbow raised to slam into the broken mess that was the boy's face, and—

Everything changed around him. 

The shouting, for a second, died down. It lapsed into the closest thing Wash had ever heard it come to silence, and he heard clearly the horrible noise as his elbow came into contact with the already broken, bloodied nose. Then there was nothing as they fell to the floor, and it was only when Wash rose quickly to his feet, leaving the boy on the ground in front of him, that it changed again.

The clamour picked back up, this time loaded with a thick undercurrent of fear and shock, as one word rang through the air. 

_"Police!"_

Then the sounds had movement to it and everyone was running. On his feet, Wash had a chance, able to quickly pull back from the bodies that swept past him, but the boy he'd left on the ground wasn't so lucky. Wash watched, blankly, as he disappeared underneath the surging crowd, one hand raised up towards him, reaching, reaching—

Then he was gone, and Wash needed to _move_. Panic rippled thickly through the air, almost tangible in its headiness, as the main doors to the barn burst open. The shouting around him increased, and Wash felt panic surge within him at the unexpected turn of events — he didn't know how to deal with this, and the unknown had always proved dangerous to him.

He tried to see around him, to figure out what was happening, but the bodies pressing in around him made it impossible. Abruptly, he realised he'd lost sight of anything but the people directly around him, and he forced himself wildly forwards, trying to create a space for himself that would stop the crushing feeling weighing down his chest, whispering that he was trapped. An elbow flew by his face, courtesy of a man who was trying to force his way out with his sheer size. Wash saw his opportunity and quickly ducked into the tiny space behind him, following in his tracks as the man forced onwards, knocking aside anyone who stayed in his path for too long.

They made it forward fairly far, before Wash realised they were going the wrong way. In his panic, the man was forging a path directly  _towards_ whatever was happening at the front of the barn, and while Wash wasn't sure exactly what it was, he knew that it was trouble. He hesitated, a short second passing by as he considered his options, but that was long enough for him to lose his lifeline to the man ahead of him, and he was quickly at threat of being knocked to the ground.

Uncertainty flooded through him to join the catastrophic wave of chaos that was going on both inside him and out and he was quickly being trapped, losing any chance he had to get himself _out_ —

The doors to the building were blown open. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash, and a split second later a deafening bang was audible over the shouting around him. Too much happened at once, too many things in the same short second from too many directions, and he was finally slammed to the floor.

Instantly there were bodies above him, then on him, and while he wanted to crawl into a ball to make himself as small as possibly he knew his one shot at survival was to get back up again. 

 _Get up._  

His mind churned that one thought out as his chance of getting up quickly slipped further and further away.

_Get up. Get up. Get the hell up—_

A foot landed on his ribs and forced the air out of him, and Wash finally succumbed to his own panic. His instincts took over and he lashed out, kicking someone in the back of the kneecap hard enough to send them to their knees. Where they had previously stood, Wash caught a glimpse of the ceiling, and he didn't hesitate, using the person he'd just condemned as a midway point to haul himself quickly to his feet.

Once upright, his panic didn't abate, because he could tell by the shifting shape of the crowd around him that they were being forced inwards, corralled into a smaller and smaller circle that would end with him in the middle. Crushed, unable to breathe, his last sight the dirty, frantic eyes of the men who had wronged him for so long. It was too much. He couldn't die like this, couldn't fight so constantly for years on end, scraping by on the brink of survival for it to end now.

There was more shouting, so loud now that it was painful, drowning out even his own pulse as it thrummed in his ears. He barely had a second to wonder what had happened before it became obvious — a gap formed in the crowd, just for a split second, but enough for him to figure it out. The officers had broken down the side door, and they streamed in from all sides now.

Another elbow threatened to knock him back down again, but he moved numbly out of the way, feeling a different kind of adrenaline fill him, one that he'd never been able to act on before.

The urge to  _run._ The urge to follow the building feeling in his chest that tried to force him forward, away from it all. His stomach churned sickeningly as he realised that for the first time in his life, he could. It surged through him, forcing the panic from his mind enough to allow him to think clearly when he realised that  _this was his chance._

With one goal in mind, he began moving forward, painfully slowly, ducking and dodging and barely avoiding being knocked back down again. Instead of trying to use force, it was only his agility and smaller size that allowed him to slip through the men around him, barely managing to hold his footing when the crowd surged around him. His eyes flicked around, constantly searching, reassessing, unable to do anything but try desperately make his way forward.

Over the calamity around him, he heard snatches of a voice, magnified somehow, trying to assert itself over the roar of the panicking crowd. 

_"—will use force if necessary. Get down on your knees and—"_

The shooting began. From what side, Wash didn’t know and never would. The only thing that registered was that he couldn't stop moving.

A group of men had broken away from the crowd, close enough that Wash had a chance to try and get to it. He dimly registered that they were running for the side door, and without hesitation he burst through the gap they'd left in their wake and joined them. He didn't spare a thought to how he might look, covered in dirt and blood, his eyes crazed with determination to survive as he became part of the group of people who had forced him to become this.

A bullet whizzed past his ears and he slipped into the middle of the dwindling group, ears ringing and his heart beating so hard it felt like it would burst from his chest.

He wasn't thinking anymore. He'd given in, his fight or flight response taking over as he'd lost control of the situation, driving him mindlessly forward into what could easily be a deathtrap. He knew, deep down, in the small part of his conscious brain that was still functioning, still assessing the situation even as he was helpless to respond to it, that he had no other choice.

So he ran, blind to the bodies dropping around him, as he got closer and closer to the doors ahead of him. Then they were through, and rain seemed to soak into him instantly, freezing cold on his heated skin. His eyes had been so set on the doors that he hadn't looked beyond them, to what stood between him and the freedom ahead, but now he was out.

Out, in the galeforce winds and the pouring rain. 

He continued to run and the rain continued to fall, threatening to run into his wide, rapidly blinking eyes and blind him, but it didn't. Even if he'd wanted it to, it didn't, and he had to face the situation ahead: the fact that there was no way through. Police surrounded them, cars and vans and a fucking helicopter above him, too many men with too much power and he couldn’t get caught here, he was _almost_ _out,_  but there wasn't any path forward and someone was screaming at him and—

He didn't realise he'd frozen until the remaining crowd, those not dead or firing, burst out behind him, following in the footsteps of the group he'd escaped with and out through the blown doors. They must have overpowered the few cops that Wash had barely evaded because they didn’t hesitate, too lost in panic to think about what it meant to charge quickly past him and directly into the heart of the police grouping.

There were no more shots for now, only shouting and incoherent orders lost on deaf ears as the officers tried to deal with this turn of events.

Wash ignored it, buried himself in the crowd. He ran with them, almost surprised that they were making it so easy, that it almost felt like they had a _chance,_  until the gunfire started up again. This time, it wasn't wild — it was calculated, promising, a whisper of death creeping up his back as he felt more fall around him.

He sheltered himself from it, forced it from his mind and tried not to let himself sink into how hopeless it was. 

 _Hopeless_. 

Then again, hadn't it always been? 

His legs forced him forward, the ground flying by beneath him, the first rain he'd felt in years flattening his hair to his head and pouring into his eyes. The shouts grew quieter, the bullets slowed in frequency, and Wash kept running, kept sobbing, kept gasping for breath as he put one foot in front of the other, again and again and again.

For a long time, he didn't stop running.


	2. colours of life & bonafide introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time skip! you'll find out what happened between chapters later.  
> 

All Wash could focus on was the grey.

It was the only colour he could really _see;_ there was the blue of the man’s uniform as he led Wash down the halls, and the red of the scabs and cuts of his own knuckles, but those were things he was blind to. Unimportant, irrelevant, things that meant nothing to him when he'd been born into a new world of endless, yawning grey.

The walls, the ceiling, the floor. The bars on the entrance to the rooms he passed, with their inhabitants unobscured from view. He'd escaped so barely from one cell, only to land straight in another. 

_Blood Gulch Juvenile Detention Centre for Boys._

What it was didn't matter, when all it seemed to be crumbling walls and cracked ceilings and so much _grey._

"David Washington."

Automatically, he looked up, into the face of the officer staring down at him. _Emotionless,_ and if emotionless had a colour, Wash knew what it would be. That's how he felt, too. Since his capture, the proceedings had flown by, and he'd withdrawn so much into himself during them that he doubted he'd ever fully come back out again. He doubted that he'd ever  _want_ to, when there was no colour to be found.

The officer made a jerky beckoning gesture with his hand, and dutifully, Wash followed. His eyes scanned around as they walked, searching for something, though he didn't know what. They passed other boys, all wearing the same dull uniform. They passed officers, stationed like robots along every certain junction or after every certain distance. They passed two boys, one tall, pale and gangly and the other short, tanned and fat — as they passed, the tall one leaned down to whisper something in the chubby boy’s ear, who nodded but looked entirely uninterested, and the boredom on his face could almost have contested the emptiness on Wash's.

Then he was moved out of sight, and Wash forgot about the two boys almost as quickly as he'd seen them. He made it down the hall without anything further catching his eye, turned through endless hallways and more corners than he could count, and after a while he gave up on trying to maintain his whereabouts. His sense of direction had proved uncanny in his months of freedom, but in here, it was useless.

When they reached a certain point, evidently significant to the officer leading him, they stopped.

"Your room," came a voice, and a surprising jolt of emotion accompanied it to run down Wash's spine.

 _His room_ , with someone inside it, clearly visible through the open cell door of the front. The walls beyond it were solid, painted a pasty, faded white, and he wondered how long it would be before the colour faded from him, too.

The officer tapped against the bars. "Back against the wall," he ordered, voice directed towards whoever was inside, and Wash slowly looked up in time to see a flash of dark skin and a cheeky grin as the boy within lazily obeyed.

"Officer! Just in time. I had a question I wanted to ask. You've probably heard it a million times before, but just curious. Aren't there, how do I say it, some laws out there that prevent you from treating us like garbage?"

The boy smiled, showing his teeth, and while his tone indicated he was joking there was no humour in it. Wash edged the slightest step away as he leaned past him to eye the boy inside.

The guard rolled his eyes. "Why don’t you file a report with someone who cares?"

A soft snort reached Wash's ears in lieu of any response, and the guard took the opportunity to all but shove Wash inside. "Everything you need is there. Don’t ask for anything." He turned to leave, stepping out and pulling the cell door shut behind him, but a voice rang out from against the wall, cheerful and easy. 

"Hey, guard."

Wash's jaw twitched as he side eyed his cellmate, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling at the signs of trouble. His gaze was met when he glanced back at him, then looked past to wiggle his eyebrows at the guard in provocation. 

"You're religious, right?" He didn't wait for an answer, just eyed the thick silver cross hanging from the guards neck pointedly. "Well, I've been thinking. Hebrews, thirteen three. Sound familiar? No? _Remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who are mistreated as if_ —"

The guard slammed his keys against the cell door where Wash had stood only moments before. "You know what _I’m_ thinking, _Lavernius?"_  

The boy’s smile dropped, and Wash never got to find out what the guard was thinking, because he was moving backwards as his cellmate moved forward, lifting his hands towards the bars and smacking his open fists on them. "Bite me, asshole."

The officer grinned, jingled his keys in front of his face and left. They stared after him.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Wash heard, and he turned back to face him. "Doesn't have a fucking clue. What do you know, Simmons' ridiculous memory of pointless shit pays off. I'm  _n_ _ot_ religious, by the way. That was Simmons' idea." 

His eyes sought out Wash's and after a moment, Wash met them. The second their gazes connected Wash stiffened, and took several careful steps back towards the other end of the room. Warily, he lifted his fists — not quite in front of him, not ready for a fight, but enough; enough that the boy in front of him stopped, eyed him carefully, and lost the curious look that had warned Wash of  _trouble._

That was a good sign. Wash chanced a glance back over his shoulder to see if the guard was in sight, but he was already gone, and the only thing that looked back was the curious face of the boy in the room across the hall.

There was movement, and he snapped his head back to face the boy in front of him. He lifted his fists higher, still not in a fighting position, but the only thing he could do in response to the rush of adrenaline that surged through his veins. He'd been locked into a small room with a troublemaker, and there was  _nothing_ that made him feel good about that.

"Well, shit," the boy said, and the sound in the comparative silence made him tense.

Time seemed to drag on until he seemed to regain himself, and he cleared his throat uncertainly. Wash's eyes darted down to watch as the boy outstretched a hand, and after a moment, waved it at him.

"Uh, hey," he said, before he retracted his hand. "I come in peace?"

Wash stared. He couldn't conjure up a response, still too uncertain with the situation. The sudden shifts and events that had occurred so quickly, and the unfamiliar environment continued to wear away at him, keeping him on edge, not allowing any chance to let down his guard until he'd established _something,_ or at least made it clear that he wasn't looking for a fight. His thoughts must have been obvious, because he was spoken to again.

"Seriously. Relax, dude. I'm not gunna hurt you." Wash barely stopped his eyebrows from lifting doubtfully, but the once-over he gave the boy in front of him must have given him away. "Yeah, whatever. I get it. Fine, let me reiterate. I'm not going to  _attack_ you."

For several moments, Wash didn't respond — his disbelief faded, but didn't disappear entirely. It was, however, enough for him to reach a decision, and he slowly lowered himself onto the flats of his feet, allowing some of the tension to seep out of his body. If he was at no immediate threat now, it was better to save his energy for what was yet to come.

He realised that the boy had watched these changes, and when it became obvious that was all he was going to get, he shrugged. "You can stay like that all day, nothing's going to happen." He paused to squint at Wash. "Unless you're going to attack me."

His voice was uncertain, and the look he gave Washington was blatantly an attempt to assess him, but Wash was confident that his face and stance gave nothing else away. He stayed where he was, carefully sure to avoid indicating anything, because the element of surprise could mean everything in here.

And yet the boy still didn't look like he was going to do a thing. All earlier traces of aggression that he'd shown the guard completely faded, only a mild sense of curiosity and uncertainty left in its place. He spoke.

"Okay, let's settle this. You're not going to attack me, are you? Because I'll make it real clear, I'm not looking for a fight." When Wash didn't respond, he frowned. "Honestly, can you not, because that’d really suck? Seriously man, at ease, or whatever. I told you I'm not trying to start anything, so please don’t be the guy that has to prove himself all the time. That’s my job. Except, y’know, not with fighting. With the ladies."

Finally, Wash's throat loosened enough for him to speak, and he didn't get a chance to calculate his words before he heard himself speak. "What the hell?"

"Wow, good first words," the boy sighed. "No hey, or how's it going, or good to meet you. Nope. I can tell you're going to be a  _load_ of fun. I swear, if you turn about to be some homicidal maniac, I'm gunna freak."

When Wash tensed again, picking up on a threat that was unintentional and nonexistant, he was met with another sigh.

"Jesus, just relax. We’re all chill here, _right?"_

Wash narrowed his eyes. " _Right_ ," he responded slowly, his reply automatic. He wasn't that familiar with  _condescending,_ but he knew when something crept unpleasantly through him.

In response he got a shrug. "Sorry, dude. About, like, before. That asshole always gets under my luxurious skin. Some people just need a nice solid hit in the face. Wham, bam, thank you man, you know? Anyway, forget about that guy. Don’t worry about him. Just keep your head down, and you should be right."

Wash almost scoffed, wondering if he was trying to actually be helpful or not. From the way he looked at him, Wash couldn't see no reason why he wouldn't, but it didn't help him shake off the absurdity of the situation. He tried to recount the series of events — led through halls, placed in cell, faced off here — but the conversation until that point had consisted of curveballs and constant twists that shifted everything unexpectedly.

Wash realised he had no idea if that was normal. It was possible, after all, that he'd just long lost any ability to participate in normal conversation.

One thing he could do, however, was adapt. And he could do that  _well._ So he faced the boy in front of him and waited for whatever he would say next. 

It took only a few moments. "Well, I guess we should, y'know, introduce each other. I'd prefer to get that out of the way before you hit me, or at least so I have a name to put to the fists in my face."

He was joking, or at least attempting to, but Wash bristled and his reply died on his tongue.

"Right... you seem... great." He sat down on the table, muttered something that Wash barely caught in his range of hearing. "...  _fucking hoped it wouldn't be another goddamn Church."_

Wash frowned, debated, came to a decision that he hoped he wouldn't regret. "David. Washington."

A beat passed and the boy looked up. "Oh— fuck, uh, Tucker. I'm Tucker," he said, and the beginnings of a smile began to pull at his cheeks until Wash nodded.

"Lavernius?"

It vanished. His eyes flew closed as if on reflex and he flinched, pulled away with a quiet inhale. It was immediate and painfully transparent despite the way he immediately jumped to his feet and moved, as if it would distract from the reaction he hadn't been able to cover.

 _"Nope,"_ he said, and although it was supposed to be lighthearted it was laden with tension, far too tight. "Nope, it's Tucker. Don't fucking call me that, okay? Just— just don't call me that."

Wash didn't realise he'd fallen to defensive until he was given a meaningful look that somehow seemed to be tired at the same time, and the boy — Tucker — turned away to press his forehead against the back wall. 

He waited, but he seemed to be content there, and there wasn't much Wash could do until he turned back with a sigh on his lips. The confusion Wash felt at the immediate reaction he’d had started to abate, as Tucker leant back against the wall and crossed his arms across his chest.

"Well this is going great. Okay, well for starters, it's last names only around here, it's not just me. Also, I swear I’m not bipolar. Just, y’know, getting that out there."

Wash hesitated, considered his responses to that, then nodded. "Tucker," he said, and it came across as the agreement it was supposed to be.

"Okay. Cool." Instead of letting it fall into silence, Tucker chose to catch his eye. "So," he began, after a beat, "first time in a juvie?"

"I... yes."

"Thought so. I mean, I guess I'll give you a run down, since we're stuck here?" It tilted itself up into a question, and he waited for Wash to nod before he continued. "Okay. Uh, alright. Let's see. Well, they follow the very basic ethical treatment levels as they can possibly get away with, but they really don’t give a fuck. Dude that runs it is corrupt as shit. We get three meals a day, shower, exercise, some rec time, some basic education," he pulled overdramatic air quotations, "and that’s it."

He finally seemed to notice Wash's quiet, or at least be bothered by it, and stopped there. It didn't last, because a moment later, he eyed Wash's blank expression and cracked his neck. "Sorry to rain on your parade, dude," he said, not sounding sorry at all, "but that's just how shit is around here. You'll adjust." He took another look at Wash and reconsidered. "Or, you might not. But you seem competent. Hope you’re as good in a fight as you are eager to start one."

At this, Wash startled. "No."

Tucker raised an eyebrow, but he looked pleased. "Good. I really hope you mean that. There's enough Church's in the world."

"Who is he?"

Wash's question hadn't been a purposeful decision on his part, and he didn't appreciate the fact that it slipped from his lips before he got a chance to stop it. But Tucker just shrugged, unbothered, and tapped his fingers on his leg.

"Well, he's a dick," he offered uselessly. "Like I said, you're here replacing him. He just got out, actually. Man, I dunno, he was alright. Bit of an asshole. _Lot_  of an idiot. Probably gone back to Tex, and would end up back in here when she fucks him over again except now since he’s over eighteen he’ll go straight to jail, especially with a record like he’s got. Like I said, idiot."

Wash was silent, unsure if he was meant to respond, or if any of that was meant to make sense to him. After a moment, he almost wished he'd said something, because Tucker evidently decided he'd said too much and let the conversation fall flat. It didn't bother Wash, or it  _shouldn't_ have bothered him, except the sudden silence seemed more unwelcome than he'd expected it to. 

Still, he wasn't going to be the one to break it. He felt he'd done enough.

So while Tucker repositioned himself against the back wall with a groan, Wash took the opportunity to look around the small room again, this time properly. It was empty, aside from a few key pieces of furniture, and the two occupants. There was the bunk bed in the corner, a desk, and a chair, nailed to the floor.

"I thought they said these places weren’t meant to be like prison," he said, his voice a low murmur, hesitance wrapping around the words and bringing them out softer than he'd intended.

Tucker looked up at him, surprised. "Hey. You talk." At the look he received, he rolled his eyes. "Fine. Anyway, I’m not sure how they run it out in different places, but this isn’t a city. This is a piss ass tiny desert town that isn’t even officially on maps, but you probably don’t know that."

"Why would you assume that?" Wash asked quietly, finally moving out of his position in the against the beds to take a closer look at the furniture. He kept a wide berth around Tucker, but neither of them acknowledged it.

"Well, they import heaps of people. This is the only juvie in like, a billion miles. Not that this planet is that big, but, y’know. We get all the no hopers, and half of them don’t leave. I swear, it’s like they _want_ Blood Gulch to have the worst reputation ever. I mean, it already does."

Tucker carefully moved across the room and sat on the desk, allowing Wash to keep the exact distance between them as he shifted to the position that Tucker had previously been. He didn't say anything, just watched, until they stood where each other had been, still looking at each other. He started swinging his legs.

"Am I right, though?" he pushed. "You’re not from around here?"

Wash shrugged, considered his response. "In a way," he said, vaguely. Then, "It’s a long story."

"Fair enough," Tucker allowed. "Still, sucks you got sent here. You don’t look like you belong."

Wash nodded briefly at him and let a wry smile twist his lips. "I don’t think I belong, either."

Tucker looked like he was going to roll his eyes again, before he changed his mind and settled for a huff. "Fuck, dude, you know what I’m saying. More people die in the hospital around here than come out alive. The public school was burned down twice. The average death rate is probably higher than Grif is on a Friday night." He scuffed his shoe against the ground and peeked up at Wash with an incredulous laugh. "Just saying, man. What, you think I’m joking?"

"It doesn't seem that bad," Wash replied, half-heartedly. He wasn't sure he wanted to continue the conversation anymore, Tucker's words ringing in his ears uncomfortably. 

Oblivious to his discomfort, Tucker gave a sarcastic laugh. "You’re hilarious. But hey, here’s your honourary welcome. This is the Blood Gulch Juvenile Detention Centre for Boys, and it’s a living hell. Welcome to the next however long of your life, Wash."

There was a silence as Wash tried to adjust to the unexpected nickname. "I... thank you," he said, even though he wasn't really sure what he was thanking him for.

Tucker snorted. "Uh, you're welcome? Don't thank me, thank the assholes that threw us in here. They care so much about the youth of this planet's future, they throw us in the nearest hellhole they can find."

Wash mulled over that with a quiet sigh. "I'm sure there's worse," he murmured, well aware Tucker didn’t have any idea what he meant.

"Oh, sure. Would you prefer hellhole  _A_ or hellhole  _B?_ _"_

"A. If it was so bad, they wouldn't need to make a B."

Tucker snorted again, and at first, that seemed like it was the end of it. But when Wash glanced at him, Tucker was fighting down a smile, focusing his gaze studiously on the floor as he tried to keep it away. When he saw Wash peek at him another laugh escaped him, until he gave up and tilted his head to the ceiling as he snickered.

"Dude, you just applied  _logic—_ " He cut off, rolled his head to face Wash, "— goddamn, another Simmons. Trying to make the most out of it. That's  _cute."_

"Would you prefer me to say that this place doesn't actually seem that bad?"

Tucker stopped laughing, and met Wash's gaze seriously. For several long seconds he looked at him, and although Wash didn’t think he was showing any sign to indicate he was joking, Tucker's face lit up with another blinding grin.

"Dude, you _can_ make jokes! Wash, I think you're gunna fit in just fine."

It was a simple enough statement, innocuous and without too much meaning, but it was grounded in a tone filled with relief and realisation that it seemed to resonate. A few seconds passed where they just  _looked_ at each other, Tucker with a newfound delight and Wash lost in the wonderings of when the last time someone really grinned at him was.

It was  _nice,_ warm and oddly glowing in his chest, and it seemed to spark in the air between them as Tucker laughed,a chuckle that was infectious in its simplicity. A moment later, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, Wash did too.

A silent chuckle built in his chest before it spilled through his lips. It was quiet and it was ragged and it was _raw,_ because if there was ever a time he'd felt good enough to laughin years he couldn't remember it — couldn't  _remember_ how it felt to have something other than blood or muffled curses spill from between his cracked lips, and that thought stayed with him until he was laughing just for the sake that he  _was._

The look Tucker met him with made Wash's heart thud. It was appraising, his eyes bright with curiosity, and there was a glint in it that seemed to offer something — a promise, of something different, of something new. Of something  _good._  

* * *

The feeling didn't fade — he tucked it away tightly, cornered it neatly and placed it somewhere inside him that he'd be able to look back on. It wasn't so much what it  _was_ — he couldn't even remember what he'd said that had caused it, but instead how it felt, the warm comfort that seemed to seep the tension out of his body enough for him to be able to almost relax. He'd hidden himself on his bed and Tucker had amiably climbed onto his own, content to let the time pass without forcing more conversation. 

Wash actually almost  _napped_ , falling into a doze that gave his eyes rest and to catch up on some of the energy he'd lost from his constant sleepless nights. It wasn't quite there, but it was close, enough so that when the door to his room slid open with a resounding clang fear snapped through him and he acted without thinking. 

He was on his feet and backed against the wall within a second, lips parted in a silent intake of air as his muscle memory spurred him into moving,  _up,_ forward, until his hands were in front of his body as if he was already being chained and his back was firmly against the nearest wall.

The nearest wall happened to be right next to Tucker. He peered down at him from his top bunk and pulled a face.

"Er, should I like, rate you for that or something? Eight outta ten, looked practiced but your heart didn't seem in it?" 

A heartbeat passed and Wash caught his breath again. Confusion swept through him and he stumbled forwards, heavily aware of Tucker's gaze on him. Unsettled, he gestured towards the growing stream of people passing by their open door.

"What's going on?"

"Dinner time." Tucker hopped down and landed next to him on the floor. "Because it's Sunday. We're only allowed out for food and whatnot, but the other days are different." 

"Dinner," Wash repeated. He continued to watch the flow of people warily; nobody was paying attention to him, or had even glanced his way, but there was an undeniable sense of caution that manifested into a stubborn reluctance to throw himself into the mass. 

"Yep." Tucker popped the P obnoxiously. "Six thirty, every night. Breakfast is at the same time but in the morning, and lunch is twelve thirty. Every _single_ day."

Although he was tempted, Wash didn’t comment on the exasperated tone in Tucker’s voice. "Is it... your job to show me around?" 

Tucker shrugged and pointed him forward. Wash flinched away from the hand that came too close, and Tucker eyed him for a moment. "Kinda," he said after a moment, picking up as if nothing had happened, and they began walking. "I’m doing it out of my own free will, because I’m great like that." Wash turned to face him suspiciously, and Tucker caught it. He turned and laughed. "Nah, really, it’s cause I kinda gotta. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you seem alright, but if I didn’t have to I probably wouldn't."

"Right."

"What? Can you blame me? It’s not I don’t like you, but would you go to the effort of helping someone if you didn’t have to?"

Wash's response was instantaneous, the echo of years prior, of those who'd taught him to survive just enough to give him a chance, who'd risked teaching him even if it meant he might be another opponent later on.

"Yes."

Tucker blinked. "Oh. Well, you’re fuckin’ weird."

"Right," Wash nodded. "Then that makes you an asshole."

Tucker paused for a second, double-checking to see if he’d heard him right, but only got Wash’s impassive face staring back at him. He let out another laugh, and in between Wash wondering how he could laugh off an insult like that and wondering  _why_ he liked that he did it, Tucker nudged him into a bigger room. As soon as it registered Wash was freezing, digging his heels as his survival instinct reared and demanded he stop before he threw himself into a room full of unknown potential threats. He flicked his gaze around rapidly, assessing what he could see. He was automatically on edge, spine prickling and dislike sitting heavily in his stomach, because he hadn't anticipated suddenly facing a full room of people.

Some kind of mess hall, he realised, even as he was taking a step backwards. Harmless, but it wasn't the room that filled him with an uneasy caution; it was the people.

There were so  _many._ Tables filled with young men and kids, ranging in ages, creating a constant chatter that filled Wash's ears and left them hollow and ringing. It was loud, and it was busy, and Wash did not want to step a single foot inside. 

Then Tucker took a small step so that he was partially in front of him, and lowered his voice so that only Wash could hear him. "You, uh, you comin'?" 

Wash's nostrils flared and he took another long look around the room. There were so many  _people,_ enough that he wouldn't have any real personal space wherever he went. There would always be someone, close enough that they could do some damage, close enough that Wash wouldn't be able to stopthem. He had to keep his distance. He knew that, it was one of the few things he'd always known, had been able to pull around him like a comforting blanket to shield him from getting hurt. 

Except Tucker was in his personal space, staring up at him, and the only thing on his face was a curious concern. Suddenly aware of what that entailed — Tucker was  _too_ close — Wash took a step back. 

Tucker let him, but a frown tugged at the corner of his lips. "It's alright. I'm not gunna hurt you." 

The words sounded heavy and wrong in the air, and Wash bristled. "I’m not afraid of you."

Tucker didn't miss a beat. "Didn’t say you were," he replied evenly. "Now, you coming or not?"

Wash became acutely aware that they were still standing in the doorway. The longer they stood there, unmoving, the higher the chance became that they would draw attention to themselves. He lifted his chin and took a defiant step forward, then another, until Tucker was by his side and guiding him towards wherever it was he was meant to go.

It turned out to be a line, where they were served food. An entire tray with meat and vegetables, and that was so promising that he didn't even glower when Tucker hip checked him into line and passed him a tray to fill. They were served in silence, Wash focused on the aroma of the food beneath him, and with no other choice he continued to follow Tucker until he stopped at a table.

Tucker threw himself down in a seat and gestured  _voila._ "Take a seat, Wash," he offered, and with no small amount of hesitation Wash sat himself at the corner of the table. It was still by Tucker's side, so it wasn't a stretch, but his movements were jerky and uncertain as he edged his chair backwards to give himself room.

Tucker rolled his eyes at him and turned to the table.

"This is Washington. Wash, whatever. He's a  _bit_ weird, and I'm not entirely convinced he's not planning to kill me, so do me a favour and be nice to the guy."

He shot a tight look at the side of Tucker's face, but it went ignored. Tucker had evidently finished with his introductions and seemed content to begin eating. Wash was left facing the remainder of the table in silence, and he prayed that it would stay like that, because Tucker's words had left an uncomfortable echo ringing in his ears.

_I'm not entirely convinced he's not planning to kill me—_

Wash swallowed and tried to tell himself it didn't matter whether Tucker was joking or not. He knew nothing about them, and from what he'd decided before he'd even entered the centre, that was how it was supposed to stay. That was how it was  _safest,_  even if he'd gotten a glimpse of how it might not have to be that way. Even if something in him told him Tucker was joking even now.

His attention returned to the table when one of the boys in front of him leaned forward. "I’m Grif," he greeted, and the skinny redhead next to him offered a quick smile as Grif gestured lazily to him. "That’s Simmons."

Wash realised that they were the boys he'd seen when he'd first entered. That thought flew through his mind, registered itself, and then faded. It was unimportant. He didn't care who they were or where they'd been, so he nodded, ready to let the conversation fade before it even began.

Grif eyed him, then Tucker, then turned back to him. "Alright. Okay, how are you liking this so far?"

Wash cleared his throat, searched for an answer that wouldn't really provide any information. "It's... okay." Grif snorted, and he frowned. "I’m not sure how you want me to respond to that."

"Uh, it's not about how  _I_ want you to— never mind. If you turn out to be another Simmons, I'm not gunna stop you. Probably better for Tucker." He was met with a chorus of protests that left him looking smug.

"To be fair," Tucker said when he was finished, "I did say like that exact same thing earlier."

Grif nodded. "Fair play," he said, and turned to Wash. "Although... if you  _are_ like Simmons, then here's your heads up." He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder towards the line. "That’s Sarge over there at the line. He’ll be here in a minute, and just a warning, he’ll probably hate you."

Wash tensed. "What? What’s that meant to mean?"

"Nothing," Tucker butted in, in a way that definitely meant something. "Just, y’know. Yeah."

Simmons frowned and swivelled to glare at Grif. " _Grif!_ Sarge doesn't hate me! He said he tolerates me almost the most out of everyone here."

"And  _that's_ a glowing commendation—"

Wash's voice rose in pitch to cut over top. "Am I meant to understand that?"

"Friends! Everybody! Tucker!"

Whatever Tucker had been about to say died in his throat at the sudden and enthusiastic interruption. Wash stiffened sharply at the sudden noise, and Tucker pulled a face and tentatively gestured to the new arrival. 

"And that," he began, reluctantly, "is Caboose."

Wash blinked up at him. Caboose easily passed six foot, and with broad shoulders and big arms, he looked like somebody Wash would deem a threat. Caboose, however, despite his huge size and the fact he should be intimidating, greeted him with an overenthusiastic grin and an attempt at a hug that Tucker had to launch out of his seat and bodily intercept. 

"Easy, Caboose, he’s touchy," he warned, steering him away.

Caboose brightened as he was seated. "So he will love hugs!" 

"No, not like that — fuck. Never mind. Shut up, and don’t touch the new guy."

Caboose sat down and proceeded to peer at him dramatically. The fact that he had one blue eye and one hazel eye was mildly more disconcerting then it really had a right to be, but Wash wasn't given a chance to dwell on that, because after a moment Caboose straightened, still peering at him.

"You are not Church."

Wash glanced nervously at Tucker, subconsciously searching for guidance.

"Nope," Tucker said cheerily, not even lifting his gaze from the plate in front of him.

Caboose looked confused. "But you are in Church’s seat, and Church's room. But you are not Church."

"Great job, Einstein," Grif muttered.

Wash set his jaw. "I'm sorry, is this a joke?"

"Shh, just— give him a moment."

Tucker was obviously waiting for something, staring at Caboose expectantly as he examined Wash. Washington couldn't force the tension out of his posture, wasn't even sure he should try, but Caboose backed away after one final look over and nodded in satisfaction.

"You will replace Church nicely," he declared rather loudly. "Until he comes back."

Wash didn’t really have a response for that, but Grif clicked his fingers.

"There it is. Good for you, Wash, you made a friend. Hey, Caboose, I’ll sell you  _Church_ if you give me your food when you get it. I just want half. Three quarters, and he’s all yours."

Caboose looked like Grif was offering him the sky, the sun, and the stars on a golden platter. He opened his mouth and Wash, with no small amount of disbelief, cut that down before it could go any further. He didn't understand it, and he didn't want to.

"No. Absolutely not."

Grif looked disinterested in Caboose's dangerously sad expression. "I told you, dude, it's a dangerous place."

Wash squeezed his eyes shut and wondered when he'd died and gone to hell. "No. No, you're an idiot. That doesn’t mean you can _sell me."_

Tucker took one look at how worked up he was getting and quickly moved the conversation on. "Ignore Grif, he is an idiot, and _no_ he can't sell you. Yeesh. Moving on, we also have Donut, but he’s… not here right now."

There was potential for conversation there, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Wash shouldn’t really ask. Honestly, he didn’t think he wanted to.

"And you already know me: Tucker. The best."

Sarge arrived at the table, and a brief nod was sent in Wash’s direction. Apart from that, it continued as previously. Wash could see the redhead, Simmons, eyeing Grif with confusion.

"What’s going on, fatass, you’re not hungry for once? Normally you’ve eaten half the juvie’s fucking food by now. And then some."

Wash Of all the things he expected the timid looking boy to say, something that boldly insulting and sarcastic was not high on the list. But, he reminded himself, he should know better. Judging people was always a hit or miss game, even though he’d developed a good eye for it over the years. Knowing your opponent could be vital.

"Simmons, it’s nearly halfway through dinner. I would be _done_ by now. I’ll have you know I’m conducting science."

Simmons scoffed, sat back, and crossed his arms. "Go."

Grif did. "Well," he began, "I heard from a highly reputable source that if you wait between mouthfuls of food, it’s better for you."

Simmons blinked, surprised. "Actually, yeah. If you wait, then—"

"It tastes better! Which is better for me."

"Oh." Simmons nodded. "Never mind, I thought you were being smart for a second there. My bad."

"What?" Sarge narrowed his eyes at him. "Did I hear that correctly?"

"I _thought_ he was going to say it digests better, which is actually right and makes sense, but he just fucked it up." He shrugged and continued to pick at his food.

Grif shrugged back. "Whatever. You’re just jealous you don’t have academic sources to learn from."

"You’ve been reading that stupid book Church sold you again, haven’t you? I told you, he drew the fucking thing on a piece of stolen paper. I can’t believe you actually _bought_ it."

"Digestion for dummies is _not_ a fake book."

The rest of that conversation wasn’t anything Wash felt that he benefited from. While nobody was watching him, he took the opportunity to assess the group in front of him as he ate, and then expanded his analysis to the rest of the room. He was only dragged back into the conversation when Tucker pushed his tray back and fixed Grif with a meaningful look.

"I'm done," he declared. "Grif, you want to head off a little early?" 

"Sure fucking do, blue."

"Uh, Tucker?" Simmons raised an eyebrow at him, then tilted his head towards Wash.

"Right. Um... someone can show Wash back to the room, right?"

Simmons sighed. "I can probably do it. Even though you _really_ shouldn’t be sneaking off so close to the end."

"Where are you going?" Wash asked, curiosity overriding his desire to keep attention away from him. 

"Smoke. Gotta do it sometime."

"And now is that time, my friend," Grif decided. "Let’s roll."

He and Tucker stood, saluted sarcastically to the table and after depositing their trays at a counter, walked back out the way they’d came. Wash was left facing Simmons, Caboose and Sarge, all of whom were watching him. It was a little disconcerting.

"So..." Simmons started, then trailed off, and the awkward air at the table thickened.

Something within Wash drove him to move. "I think I’ll head back to the rooms early," he said, standing, before he abruptly paused. "We can do that, right?"

Sarge nodded. "Need a way back?"

"No, I—"

"Good, 'cos I wasn’t going to show you."

"Sarge," Simmons groaned. "Cut the guy a little slack."

"Why? What slack has he ever cut me?"

"You met him not even half an hour ago!"

"Exactly! Plenty of time for him to cut me some slack."

"I’m leaving," Wash interrupted. Simmons and Sarge looked up at him, and then at Caboose, who was still eating.

"I can take you—" Simmons offered, but Wash was shaking his head before he could even finish. "Well, okay. Bye!"

Caboose offered a smile up at him, mouth full of food, which Wash hesitantly returned, twitching his lip into something resembling a smile before dropping it. He nodded quickly at Simmons and Sarge and followed Tucker’s path away, dropping his tray off at the counter and exiting the double doors. After that, he had no idea where to go. Getting lost was the last thing on his list, so he thought hard and tried to backtrack the way he’d came.

He made it two hallways, probably in the wrong direction, passing the occasional kid heading towards the direction he was coming from. As Wash passed by two boys who looked just as annoyed as he felt, he wondered if he should turn and ask for directions. He took another step forward before he decided he needed to.

"Hey—" he said, starting to turn around, before a hand clamped down on his shoulder and slammed him face first into a wall. 


	3. stormy tides and emotive eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read & review, yo <3

Wash reeled, momentarily stunned. The sudden stars that burst behind his eyes were blinding but ephemeral, and he blinked them away as he scrambled to his feet. 

The move had surprised him, but he was back up in time to meet the boy rushing at him. It was evident he hadn’t expected Wash to recover so quickly, and equally obvious that he was annoyed he hadn’t got the jump. His movements were rough and jerky, and the left hook he threw at Wash’s face was a slight over swing that was too fast to have any real power behind it.

Analysing this was second nature. While his brain made note of everything he could see from the way he fought, Wash was returning the favour. He threw a jab out to land in his solar plexus, and in return the kid doubled over, the breath forced out of him in a silent rush. There was no hesitation — Wash used the movement to grab his head and slam his face down onto his knee, sending him sprawling.

The other boy jumped in. He grabbed Wash from behind and threw him to the floor, bringing himself down on top of him. Wash grunted and tried to roll them but hit the wall, leaving him momentarily disoriented.

He felt the kid on top of him slam his knee into his gut, and if Wash hadn’t exhaled in time all the air would have been forced out of him. Instead, he just felt a queasy sickness spread from his stomach. He swallowed it down.

In quick retaliation he threw his elbow up, getting rewarded with a satisfying _smack,_ which he followed up with two more identical hits. When he felt the dead weight on top of him he rolled out from under it and jumped to his feet, only to be slammed right back down to the ground by the first boy.

Not a single word had been exchanged during the fight, not a single indication of any reason why he was being attacked so suddenly. There was nobody around them and not even a guard in sight, but that wasn’t a surprise considering that this hallway intersected off of two others. Unless someone happened to be walking by...

He knew, instinctively, that nobody was going to help him. He didn't expect it, and the thought never crossed his mind because he was clueless, fighting blind, but—

Wasn’t he always?

He let himself fall into the familiarity of it. Fight now, think later. Right now he had one problem, and that problem wasn’t  _why_. A shot glanced off his cheekbone, knocking his head back, and he automatically shoved his knee up and threw himself to the side to give himself time to recover. This time he didn’t hit a wall, but instead the warmth of the other boys leg, and for a moment he wasn’t in juvie but back in the arenas, surrounded by men and women who were long gone on drugs and searching for solace in the violence and death of kids who didn’t have any other _choice—_

But when he finished his roll and hauled himself to his feet, it was just the two boys once more. The mental distraction was costly, and he was almost taken to the ground again. As it was, he ducked, moved to the side, and easily slammed his elbow into the kids head as Wash sidestepped his tackle. He sent him crashing to the floor, and it was over. For a few moments, the only noise was the sound of Wash’s ragged breathing.

Pulling himself to his feet, one boy met his glare with cold eyes and a raised chin. The other was still blinking himself back to consciousness. 

Wash pushed down the urge to ask why they’d attacked him, and instead stared them down defiantly.

"Try it again," he suggested.

To his relief, he sounded more hostile than he hoped; it seemed to cut through the air like a knife, signifying the end. The glaring boy hauled his friend to his feet and left.

Wash swished around a mouthful of blood and saliva, spat it onto the floor, and began searching himself for any injuries. Being slammed into the wall had done a little damage to the inside of his mouth and left him with a swelling cheekbone, and the knee to the gut had left him with a sore and queasy stomach, but apart from that, he was fine. The most painful part was the cut on his tongue bleeding into his mouth, and it was minor.

It was a _relief_.

Getting jumped scared the shit out of him. He didn’t know what he was doing out by himself, but more than that, now that it was over he wanted an explanation. There had to be a motive, a reason,  _something_ as to  _why_ he'd been—

Someone passed by the end of the hallway, and a lingering look left fear creeping steadily up his spine. He wasn't safe here, and he needed to  _go._  Holding his aching stomach, he kept his eyes and ears at high alert, desperately searching for a familiar sign to show him he was going in the right direction as he began to walk.

He found none. He passed multiple officers, but they all shared the same blank, uninterested gaze, and Wash knew. Knew it wasn't worth asking, even if he'd wanted to. He was alone, for now, and he had to find somewhere to hole himself up.

After a while of searching, so tense and on edge he was straining, he found a bathroom. It was a shower block with a long, tiled hallway that echoed with his footsteps as he made his way down it. When he walked through the doorway, he was greeted with the sight of twelve shower cells, all connected, but with high walls on each side and a three quarter length push door at the front. It was a small measure of privacy, at least, but for now it was a place to check himself for injuries and wash the blood out of his mouth. 

He scanned the room again before he began, reassessing, the adrenaline still running through his veins. There was no one there, just the twelve shower blocks, a few sinks, and some benches on the right side of the room, closest to where he was. Unwilling to travel further inside than he already had, he tentatively took a moment to raise his shirt and start feeling along his ribs and sternum, before moving down to where it was most tender. Nothing broken, nothing even cracked. Just a blooming bruise. His jaw, likewise, was sore, and his cheekbone throbbed from where he’d first hit the wall. The taste of copper no longer filled his mouth.

He was fine, but it easily could have ended differently.

He cursed himself for making such a stupid decision, for so blindly leaving when he had no idea where he was going — and worse, for ignoring the small tightening in his gut that he’d felt when he’d first seen them moving down the hallway towards him. He’d assumed it was just paranoia, a fair reaction considering his past, but now disappointment and anger filled him, and his aches seemed worse.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by a noise that made him freeze. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall towards him, and after a second, his head shot up. He surveyed the room, trying to decide which place would offer the best protection, when he froze again for a completely different reason. The voices that echoed down towards him, unbelievably, were familiar.

"—actually, asshole, that was disproven. And you gotta admit, it’d be fucking funny."

"Shut up. It was not."

"Uh, Howard Carter? Was living proof otherwise, dude."

Then they rounded the corner, where Wash still stood, frozen in uncertainty, his fists raised and his eyes narrowed.

"Also, he — Wash."

"Huh? Washed what?"

"No, dude, Wash. The dude. Like, right in fucking front of us."

"What?" Even as he asked, Tucker was looking back to face forward from where he'd been glancing over his shoulder, and his gaze met Wash's instantly. Wash stared out defensively from where he stood, back against the sinks, and waited. "Oh," Tucker said again. He blinked at him, but when Wash only glared back, he frowned.

"Fuck happened to your face?" Grif asked, before Tucker could say anything, and Wash watched Tucker's eyes flash to his cheekbone and zone in.

Wash had instinctively retreated to put his back against the sinks at their arrival, but when Grif moved towards him he forced himself a step forward, and Grif wisely stopped in his tracks. Tucker was still staring.

"I got jumped," Wash replied candidly. From the look of growing understanding on Grif’s face, it wasn’t a surprise.

"Sucks, dude," Grif said, after a moment.

Wash nodded his head in his direction, and Grif nodded back.

"You okay?" Tucker butted in. "Who jumped you, did you see him?"

"Did you win?" Grif pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"Dude." Tucker frowned at him. "Go make yourself useful, go get Doc or something."

"I don’t need a doctor," Wash cut in hurriedly. "I’m not hurt."

Grif rolled his eyes. "Not a doctor. _Doc."_

"A kid we know," Tucker explained. "Kind of knows a little bit about medicine, sort of. Mostly medical marijuana, if you know what I’m saying. Anyway, Grif, go get him."

"I _just_ lit up my smoke—"

"Now, dude. But I’ll take the rest of it."

With a sigh that he made no attempt to repress, Grif tapped the small amount of ash out on the floor, quick to slide it over to the drain in the middle of the room and down through the gap with his shoe. He straightened and gave Tucker a glare, handing him the cigarette.

"Fine. Asshole."

"Good. Hurry up." Tucker turned his attention back to Wash as Grif exited, slipping the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he checked him over. "You sure you’re okay?"

"Positive," Wash said, and dodged Tucker’s hand when he reached out to grab his chin.

"Stay still, I’m making sure you’re okay."

"I’m _fine,"_ Wash ground out, and Tucker dropped his hand. "They got two shots in."

"They? How many were there?"

"Two."

Tucker blinked at him appreciatively. "Dude. Good fighting skills."

"Thanks," Wash said dryly. "It’s all I’ve got."

The joke went over Tucker’s head, but it was supposed to. "Still," Tucker frowned once more. "Sorry. I shouldn’t have left."

"What?"

"Well like, you got jumped. Probably wouldn’t have happened if I was there," Tucker shrugged. He blew a long stream of smoke out and continued frowning at him.

"You would have protected me?" Wash paraphrased. "Are they averse to hitting you?"

Tucker touched his jaw reflexively, and Wash didn’t miss it. "Nah, I wouldn’t say that," he grinned. "But two on two evens the odds a little, don’t you think?"

It was Wash’s turn to frown. "This is coming from the same person who earlier said it would be too much effort to help someone out in need."

"Eh." Tucker shrugged, and Wash started to wonder how often he did that. "Little bit different when it comes down to it," he said. "So what happened?"

Wash mimicked his shrug, somewhat awkwardly, and then stopped. "I'm not sure. Is being attacked for no reason exactly common around here?"

He was met with a frown. "No," Tucker said, thoughtfully. "It's not." His eyes danced on him, and Wash fought the urge to shiver under the blatantly obvious analysis. "Not this soon, anyway," he added, after a moment. "I mean, we've all... but how did they even know?"

He didn't say anything else, but the silence seemed to bring his unspoken words to light, and Wash read into his expression with his own frown forming on his face. 

"It's unusual," he said, after a moment. "You're surprised."

Tucker gave a nod, then blinked, a flash of realisation crossing his face before he stiffened. Wash didn't get a chance to ask what had caused this reaction, because Tucker was blowing out an annoyed breath, and turned his gaze onto Wash once more — this time, evaluating him in a different light.

"Felix," he said, as if Wash would understand what that meant. "I know it. He saw you when you got in the cell, how you responded. I  _bet_ you that you got his curiosity up. Fucking— of course!"

"What are you talking about?" Wash interrupted, before he could say anything that would only serve to confuse Wash further. "Who is Felix?"

"A fucking asshole," Tucker muttered, but he turned his gaze from Wash to the floor, and tapped his cigarette absentmindedly. "He's in the cell opposite us. I'm an idiot. I didn't even think. Of course he'd be interested in you."

Wash had temporarily zoned out, searching through his memories for any indication of who Tucker could be referring to, before it clicked. An image flashed through his mind of a boy behind cell bars, his curious face watching openly as Wash had backed defensively away from Tucker. He didn't get a chance to dwell on the memory, because Tucker's words had caught his attention in a way that filled him with unease.

"Why would he be interested in me?" he asked, warily, and Tucker suddenly looked unsure.

"Ah," he started, as if he'd said something he hadn't intended to. "Well..."

He was saved from having to respond by the sound of footsteps hurriedly approaching them. This time, they were light, so Wash was sure it wasn't Grif, but Tucker didn't seem concerned about it so Wash kept himself from raising his fists with a conscious effort. He gave Tucker one last sharp, evaluative look before he directed his attention to the hall, and after a moment, Simmons appeared, looking slightly out of breath.

Tucker frowned at him.

"Really? I ask him to do _one_ thing."

"He said he was busy," Simmons explained, hurriedly.

"Why are you so puffed?" Tucker interrupted. "Man, don't let Sarge see that, he'll give you hell."

It was Simmons' turn to frown. "Dinner is almost over, so I had to hurry. I actually ran all the way to Donut's to find Doc, but he was, uh... with him."

"Eesh." Tucker crinkled his nose. "And where is Grif?"

"Well, I ran into him, and he told me to go find Doc and send him here. Actually, he didn't, he was just going to smoke in one of the empty classrooms, but I _did_ run into him and ask where you were, so he palmed it off to me." 

"Motherfucker," Tucker sighed. "He would fucking do that. Alright, then where's Doc? Is he coming, or was he really that busy?"

"Uh," Simmons said, pulling a face, "really that busy."

Tucker blew twin streams of smoke out of his nose in a way that managed to seem annoyed. "So no help?"

"No, I wouldn’t say that," Simmons said, and started digging around in his the pocket on his uniform shirt. A moment later, he drew out a hastily scribbled note. "Uh, it says," he squinted at it, "for minor injuries, a little T.L.C! Lots of kindness and… I can’t read the next bit, and… what is that, for fucks sake… oh— and lots of cuddles."

He glanced nervously up at Wash. "Uh…"

Wash slowly shook his head, and Simmons breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank god. Uh, no offense, or anything…"

"Right," Wash said. He frowned. "Who is Doc, again?"

"Fucking useless, that’s who," Tucker grumbled. "Are you sure you’re fine?"

Wash nodded, surprised at the appreciation he felt towards the concern Tucker was showing him.

"I got a knee in the gut and an elbow to the face, but apart from that the only time they got me was when they took me by surprise and threw me into a wall."

"There was two of them, they only got two shots in, _and_ they got you by surprise?" Tucker looked impressed. "Damn, dude, you sure can fight. No wonder..."

The careful look Wash levelled him with made him wisely trail off, and neither of them saw Simmons blinking owlishly at Wash. After a moment, he piped up.

"Well, you should try and keep out of trouble," he suggested. "If word gets around about your troubles with authority, then there will probably be a lot more from where that came from."

Tucker and Wash frowned in unison.

"Authority troubles?" Tucker asked, but Wash's face had darkened considerably. 

"How do you know that?" he asked, and his tone was very carefully clear of any emotion.

Simmons picked up on it immediately, and he looked frightened. "Well, yeah," he said in a squeak, as if it was meant to mean something. "It's a bad rep to have. Especially here."

"What?" Tucker looked interested, apparently oblivious to Wash's heavy silence, and Simmons chanced a glance at him before turning his gaze back to Wash. "What are you talking about? He hasn't done anything here, trust me."

"No, not the guards here..." Simmons trailed off, but at Wash's silence, he turned his head to the roof. He took it as a cue to keep speaking, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he was reading from it. "Violent assault of an unarmed officer. Constant attacks on authority members who were concerned about the homeless boy they found roaming the streets, according to their records." He paused, looking everywhere but Wash, and continued nervously. "Not that they're ever reliable, that's just what it said. Um..."

He swallowed audibly, but he continued nonetheless, unaware of Wash's suddenly very tense and very _still_ form.

"Possible gang affiliations, assumed drug addictions—"

Tucker perked up, but every word felt like a punch in the gut to Wash.

"—assumed using alias. Homeless, no parents or family to speak of, assumed violent background based on observational records made at time of arrest and, uh, following, but otherwise no record or previous trace **—** "

He trailed off when he saw Wash step towards him slowly, and when he finally met Wash's eyes, he trembled. "Oh," he squeaked, his voice suddenly high pitch.

His eyes zoned in on Wash's hands, which were clenched into fists, and Tucker finally clued into what was wrong. Casually, he manoeuvred between them, but his eyes were wide and nervous. 

"Alright, that’s enough for today," he said, and his voice was cooler than Wash would have given him credit for. "Don’t want any more fights, I don’t think. Simmons, maybe you should—"

"How’d you find that out?" Wash interrupted, gaze trained solely on Simmons.

He only flushed, staring down at the floor.

" _How_ did you find that out?" Wash repeated.

"I just hear a lot of things," Simmons tried, and peeked nervously up at him.

Wash weighed the situation, fist jerking slightly with his urge to express himself in one of the only ways he knew — a quick hit and a split lip and Simmons dropping to the floor. And the loss of the people who had ever shown concern towards him. That was enough to leave Wash lowering his fists with aforced, conscious effort. Resentment at the need for self control he rarely required and at the humiliation he'd just faced burned hotly in his veins.

"Well then listen to _me,"_ he hissed. "And _d_ _on't_ _."_

It took all of his willpower to turn and walk down the hallway.

* * *

"Wash!"

Wash kept his head down and kept walking, trying uselessly to ignore the insistent voice tailing him.

"Washington!"

He rounded a corner, steps quickening, but when he realised it was useless he pulled to a stop in front of another row of rooms.

"Wash, you asshole," Tucker groaned, appearing around the corner only moments later. "You’re an idiot. You’re lost, you’re pissed, and you think taking off blindly down the unknown halls of a shitty juvie centre is a good idea?"

Wash didn’t have a response for that, trying to sort out the wave of emotions storming violently inside him.

"Like, seriously, where the fuck’s your survival instinct?"

Wash spun around, face set blank and cold. Tucker saw it, and something flashed across his face — what it was, Wash couldn’t say, but it left a twisted feeling in his gut. Tucker screwed up his face, peered past the cell bars into the room they were in front of, and after confirming it was empty he leaned against the bars and sighed.

"Look," he started, and fidgeted slightly. "I know that was a dick move back there. He shouldn’t even have access to anyone’s files, and he _definitely_ shouldn’t have gone telling everyone. Which is, by the way, how he found out. He doesn't get told shit, he would have just read your file when he took it to the administration office. I think you scared him into not wanting to admit that. He's kinda jumpy, and if he thinks saying something will get him in less trouble, he'd probably do it. He rambles, too. He gets nervous, it’s not his fault. He doesn’t know when to stop."

Wash barely restrained from pointing out that Simmons wasn’t the only one.

"And I know that pissed you off. I’ll, I don’t know, talk to him or something?" Tucker tried, twisting the last part up into a question.

There was a pause while he fidgeted in frustration and Wash watched coolly.

"Okay, listen. The thing is — you’re in a room with me. Like, until you get out, or your trial finishes, whichever you’re up for first."

He waited, whether for Wash to clarify or make some sort of response, Wash didn't know. When he didn't answer, Tucker nodded, as if to concede that Wash's silence raised a point.

"It's just, from my experience, it’s best to get along. Despite the, uh, shitty start. It saves a lot of time." He tipped his head back to the bars, rolling his eyes at the ceiling in exasperation. "And believe me, I even tried it with Church. And that guy could be a _serious_ cunt. But you…" he trailed off, rolling his head down and meeting Wash’s gaze again, "seem... cool?"

"A ringing endorsement."

Tucker lit up, but immediately tried to reign it in. "Ha," he waved off, "ain't nothing."

"That doesn't make sense," Wash muttered, trying to keep his voice cool and toneless.

He didn't want to forgive and forget so easily, not when he'd been practically humiliated. Although, he had to admit, it wasn't Tucker's fault. And he seemed so apologetic, despite how he was trying to play it cool. Like he legitimately wanted to avoid conflict. 

Wash voiced his query before he realised he'd even thought it. "Why are you trying so hard to fix this?"

"Well, I don't know if I'd say _fix_ it..." Tucker made little quotation marks in the air, "but like I said, dude, we share a room, for the next however long. And rooming with someone you're at odds with can make for some bad scenarios."

He rubbed up and down his arms, and Wash's keen eye picked up the sudden goosebumps forming on his dark skin.

It wasn't cold.

Wash kept quiet, instead focusing on whatever Tucker was saying to distract him.

"Like, they kept moving kids out of Church's room because he was such an asshole. He never hit them, just riled them up the point where they hit him. He was so desperate for a room to himself, but he didn't want to lengthen his sentence, _not that it mattered anyway,_ the idiot. _.._ but then he got stuck with me! And _I_ made _his_ life hell. It was great fun."

"You're not making me feel any better about rooming with you."

Tucker laughed. "Just messing."

He read like a book. Just from watching him casually, Wash could pinpoint the moment the cogs in his brain flipped from one thought to the next, because it was broadcast on his facial features like a neon sign. His smile slipped and turned into a slight purse of his lips, and the amusement faded from his eyes to be replaced by thoughtfulness. His posture shifted from relaxed, tightened a little more, and he raised his gaze to meet Wash's for a short second before flicking to the side.

"Look," he started.

Wash felt a little smug, but pushed it aside to focus on what was about to be said.

"I’m not trying to sound gay, don’t get me wrong, but you seem nice enough. Maybe got off on a bit of a bad foot. Shit happens, mistakes are made. But if you let him, Simmons will say sorry, and it's not like you actually hit the guy, so you've got nothing to worry about." He watched to see if Wash was listening, continuing hesitantly when he was. "And for the fight... don't worry about it. I don't think it'll happen again."

Something in his words didn't ring true, and Wash wondered what it was that he hadn't told him.

"And I'm sorry we weren't there," Tucker added. "I know you can obviously defend yourself, but I mean, we can help.  _If_ it happens again. Trust me, Grif can pack a mean left hook."

Wash simply nodded, and Tucker read into his silence correctly.

"Okay," he said, nodding slowly. "You’re still kinda pissed."

Wash tried to repress the urge to make a sarcastic comment, but eventually, his annoyance got the best of him. "Yes, I'm _still kind of pissed_  — not about the fact I got jumped. I don’t care about that. I care about the fact that I’ve just had what you assume is my life story  _memorised_ and repeated by a stranger who has given me no reason to like him at all, to another stranger I’ve known for a few hours, but I’m apparently expected to spend the rest of my stay here with."

They regarded each other for a moment, before Tucker bit at his lip and came to a decision.

"Why are you here?" he asked, tongue darting out to wet his lips nervously when Wash stiffened. "You said ' _what you assume to be_ ' your life story. Simmons read your file himself, and the dude’s got a photographic memory, I shit you not. So if that’s not it, what is?"

Wash fumbled, completely thrown. "I thought you weren’t meant to ask that question."

"Yeah," Tucker snorted, "there’s a bunch of shit we’re probably not meant to do, but fuck it if it doesn’t happen anyway."

When Wash still didn’t respond, Tucker sighed. "It’s fine, dude. I guess you’re really not meant to ask anyone that. I sure as fuck don’t suggest asking anyone else. But I don’t know, you seemed cool. Figured it’d be worth a shot."

He was peeking at Wash hopefully, not even trying to hide his expression, and Wash actually raised an eyebrow at his open curiosity.

"Why do you want to know?" Wash asked eventually.

Tucker shrugged. "Why does anyone? Pure, sweet curiosity. I’ll tell you right now, I’m the most curious guy I know. Doesn’t always work well, so please don’t punch me."

Wash was surprised to find that he had to fight down a smile. "I’m not going to," he promised.

"Yeah, well, wouldn’t be the first." Tucker rolled his eyes. "I bet it comes as a shock, but I generally annoy other people."

"I can’t imagine how that could be," Wash replied evenly, but he could feel himself warming up again, somewhat reluctantly. 

"I know, dude, you’re telling me. It must be my handsome looks. Seriously though, are you gunna tell me why you’re here?"

The blatant curiosity was back, open and surprisingly refreshing. Wash found himself relaxing, slowly leaning against the wall opposite Tucker as he held his gaze. Their stand-off continued until Wash looked away first, chewing over his words. Tucker waited patiently, and eventually Wash spoke in a quiet tone, ready at the slightest negative reaction to stop.

"Did you hear about those fighting rings that were shut down a few months ago?"

There was a small pause. "Yeah," Tucker responded, and his eyes danced curiously on Wash. "The underground ones, with the kids."

It sounded like he already knew where this was going, but Wash continued anyway. "I was part of it. One of the… kids."

"Harsh," Tucker murmured. Wash didn’t respond immediately.

"The place we were in got busted, and I got away," he said eventually, trying to wade through the assault of memories.

"How? I heard all the kids—" Tucker cut himself off, eyes shooting to meet Wash’s.

The unfinished sentence hit Wash hard, like all the air in his stomach had just been forced out, but he tried not to show it. He took a moment to compose himself, reminding himself to breathe, in and out, in and out, he wasn’t in those cells, those kids weren’t his friends. Everybody he’d known had either died, escaped or been transferred a long time ago.

"Most of them did," he confirmed after a minute, and forced his voice to sound lighter than the darkness that wanted to encompass it. "Out of the fighters, I believe I was the only survivor. As far as I know. I watched and waited, but I never heard anything else."

"The only survivor," Tucker echoed, staring into the distance. He looked like he was imagining it, picturing it as if he was there, and Wash just wished he wouldn’t. "How?"

"It was in the middle of my fight. My opponent got trampled when it all went down, and the others…" he trailed off, but when he saw Tucker glance at him he looked back and gave a grim smile. "They burned to death," he stated, an echo of Tucker’s earlier unfinished words. "They were still locked up, and nobody could ever escape from the cells, so when the fires started—"

He cut himself off there, expression darkening, and Tucker took the hint not to push it any further. Thinking quickly, he changed directions.

"But that was like, two months ago," Tucker drew out.

Wash shrugged, tried to figure out what to say, but the words escaped him. "I didn’t have— I had to… I was—" He gave up, frustrated, and Tucker quickly took over again.

"So they don’t know you were ever a part of it?" he asked carefully. "The cops, I mean. The fuckers that threw you in here."

"No," Wash said eventually, gaze resting heavily on the ground. "They don’t know I was part of it. They probably never will."

Tucker whistled through his teeth, eyes still trained on Wash. "So…what’d you get busted for?"

He shrugged, and finally gave into the inevitable. He was almost relieved.

"Exactly what the file said. _Problems with authority._ There was this… cop who didn’t want to take a hint. Every time he saw me he’d follow me until I lost him. Then he caught me by surprise. Came up behind me when I was sleeping. Shook me awake, like that’d be a good idea for anybody."

"But for someone like you especially…" Tucker inserted, looking thoughtful, connecting the dots mentally.

Wash watched him curiously, and Tucker raised his eyes to meet his. They held contact for a long moment until Wash broke his gaze first, flicking it to the side, not down, because this _wasn't_ a sign of weakness. For some reason, he almost trusted Tucker not to take it as one.

"I panicked," he finally confirmed. "As I believe it says on the record, I viciously assaulted an unarmed officer."

Tucker raised an eyebrow, whistling long and low. "What’d you do to him?"

There was a pause. "Broke both his arms," Wash muttered eventually. "And his jaw. And… possibly his nose." He stopped when he heard snorted laughter, and when he glanced at him Tucker was grinning like Wash had just made his day.

"That’s possibly the best thing I’ve heard today," he said, as if to confirm Wash’s thoughts. "Seriously. _Good._ Sounds like he was an asshole, anyway."

Wash raised an eyebrow. "I don’t think they saw it that way," he said, but he didn’t dispute it.

Tucker just waved his hand around dismissively and ignored the comment in favour of leaning off the wall. "Whatever, man. So, how about we start heading back to our room? Like, before they file a missing persons report or some shit. Seriously, these dudes? Buncha assholes. Definitely want to avoid getting on their bad side for shit they can actually punish you for."

Without waiting for an answer he started off, but Wash found himself calling after him.

"Tucker, wait."

Tucker stopped, spun around. He was regarding Wash cautiously, as if he knew the question that was balancing itself on the end of his tongue, the same question Tucker had hesitantly given him before.

_Why are you here?_

But Wash found himself unable to ask it, so instead he shook his head and followed after him. "Nevermind," he mumbled.

"Okay, dude." Tucker started leading them back the way they’d came.

Wash had pegged him for one to the fill the silences, and damned if he wasn’t right. Tucker started talking as if picking up a previous conversation that had never existed, and Wash found himself relaxing, fully warming up the casual tone and confident ease with which Tucker carried himself.

"Seriously, though, you're _badass._ You're all, oh, two dudes who took me by surprise and slammed me into a wall? No biggie. You just brush it off and kick their asses. Then you look like fucking _thunder_ when Simmons riled you up, which was totally h— heaps cool.'

"Like thunder?" Wash repeated dryly, and he raised an eyebrow. It was hard to tell because he ducked his head away, but it looked like he flushed darker.

" _Anyway,_ and then you're just like, I beat up an officer and broke a bunch of his bones, like that was _nothing_ , good job by the way, everyone's gunna love you for that. Which reminds me, the other day..."

Wash tuned out for a moment, mind still focusing on the way Tucker had looked at him before, eyes lit up, the way he'd smiled like he was sharing a secret as his lips curled around his words.

 _Like thunder_ , Wash thought, and smiled to himself as they walked.


	4. scars of body and mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all the lovely people who are enjoying the fic! this chapter is a little up, a little down, a little up... it's a rollercoaster, in short. much love

_"Designated shower times are from seven thirty to_ _eight thirty pm._ _All accessories must be checked by officers before being brought into the showers. All unchecked items will be confiscated."_

Wash listened to the end of the announcement before glancing over at Tucker, trying his best to make it subtle despite Tucker's general sense of... well, not caring. Although Tucker had been relatively helpful to this point, Wash was hesitant to begin to trust him yet. They'd progressed eons further than Wash had anticipated he'd come with  _anyone —_ he'd expected, and prepared for, being locked into a room with a dark eyed, dangerous boy, someone who'd be out to get him; a threat.

Tucker, despite their somewhat rocky start, was pretty clearly not a threat.

That train of thought was furthered when he glanced briefly in Tucker's direction, to see him glaring up at the speaker in the corner, scrunching his nose at is as if it could see his disdainful expression. As it was, the speaker remained unaffected, and Tucker was left to unscrunch his nose and look back to Wash with a sigh.

"Well, here it comes," he gestured, and it was pretty clear what  _it_ was. He proceeded to put on a nasally, robotic voice as he led them out into the hall. " _We do not accept responsibility for the lack of dignity allowed in the showering area. If you have any dignity, please refrain from bringing it into the showering area. Please do not attempt to regain any dignity lost_   _while in the showering area_."

Wash surprised himself when he actually laughed. Tucker looked pleased.

"I like your laugh," he commented. A second later he seemed to realise what he’d said because he threw his hands up and took a step back. "Wait, no, that sounded way gayer than I intended."

After a long moment, Wash laughed again, a short chuckle that surprised him once more. "That's not... it's okay," he assured.

Tucker relaxed. "Dude, good. Seriously, you have no idea how hard it is to find someone around here with a setting other than asshole or douche. Most anyone else would either be coming _on_ to me or getting the hell _away_ from me." He paused, squinting at Wash out of the corner of his eye. "It was definitely an accident, by the way," he repeated. "I just meant like, yeah, not enough people laugh around here. Do I still sound gay?"

Wash wasn't listening. Someone had pushed by, too close, evidently, for Wash's tastes, and he was watching where he'd disappeared with a frown. "Sorry, what? I wasn't listening."

Tucker quickly schooled his expression, then softened it with a scoff. "Nothing. Just that it's cool you're pretty chill about some stuff." He frowned at the odd look Wash gave him. "Well, you don’t know the half of it! If you did you might get it. Everyone around here has _no_ sense of humour. I’m pretty sure that’s why we kind of banded together. Except Church. I don’t know what the dude would have done if he hadn’t been roomed with me."

As they approached, Tucker started peering over the top of heads, searching for something. He continued talking, somewhat distractedly.

"You know, you should have seen Church. He had an impressive three modes: whining _for_ Tex, bitching _about_ Tex and plain old asshole."

His voice had a note of affection that Wash didn’t point out. Instead, as they rounded the corner, he took a deep breath. "I don’t suppose it’d be any use to say I don’t do communal showering."

"I wish. They'll drag you here even if you try to fight it." Tucker gave a laugh that came out off key, and he didn't seem to realise he was digging crescent moons into his palms with his nails.

Wash flicked his gaze back and forth before he turned away. 

"Right," Wash agreed, but he was surprised by the note of doubt in his own voice.

He hated going into new situations with no information. It had rarely happened to him before, up until he’d escaped… but now he found himself constantly thrown into it, and it didn’t take long to discover that he hated it with a passion. Back in the fighting rings, his life had been loosely set around order, routines based on chaos. Different times, same thing. Different people, same game. Wake up. Fight. Survive. Get dragged back to cells and locked in. Eat. Sleep if possible.

Rinse and repeat. And now...

Tucker was watching him, thumb rubbing circles into the reddened flesh of his palm. "You coming? It's only five minutes. It's okay."

Wash blinked himself back into reality and forced himself to keep his gaze steady as they entered.

Tucker's voice rang out from behind him. "Hey, we’re not in the same lot as Donut, good news."

"Donut," Wash repeated, not quite a question.

"Yeah. Nice kid, kind of… you’ll see what I mean when you meet him. Now hurry up. We all have to go at the same time, and you _don’t_ want to hold up the line."

Wash looked around and saw all the half-naked bodies around him, mostly hidden by the poor lighting. Unperturbed, he stripped to nothing and got in the last stall, and after several moments the showerhead sputtered out a weak but relatively warm stream of water. He wanted to soak in the warmth, but years of practicality had drilled into him not to be wasteful, so he scrubbed as well as he could and relished the idea of having daily showers.

Before he really realised it, the time was up and the shower head cut off with a resonating  _clang._ He exited, returned to his clothes pile and started dressing.

"Here." Tucker was suddenly at his side, holding a towel out in his hand and his shirt casually over his crotch. "You don’t have one, because you haven’t got any money to buy from commissary, and they aren’t allowed to supply them in bulk because of hygiene issues. I haven’t got any diseases, don’t worry. Just don’t get it soaked ‘cos I still want to use it."

Wash nodded and took it to heart. He was quick to dry himself, and when he finished, he held the towel out behind him, already reaching for his clothes with his free hand. When Tucker didn’t take it Wash glanced back over his shoulder, and was met with the sight of Tucker staring as he saw for the first time the mess of scars covering Wash's back.

He froze, watched Tucker's expression shift from shock to realisation, his lips falling open to form a small, perfect  _o_. That was all Wash wanted to see so he moved, held his shirt in front of himself so he could turn. But when Tucker’s gaze slid from the scars covering his back to the scars on his chest Wash felt his face heat up with indignation and a surprising amount of self-consciousness. He thrust the towel forcefully into Tucker’s hands and turned back around to dress as quickly as he could.

He still felt strangely bare even when he was covered.

Neither of them said anything the walk back, an uncomfortable silence forcing its way between them. When they arrived back at their room Wash was irritable, bothered by the flash of Tucker’s eyes constantly landing back on him. He didn’t think he could miss the way Tucker kept opening and shutting his mouth, giving up on his words before they even had a chance to pass his lips. But he didn’t bring it up — he saw no reason to. They didn't need to talk about it. Silence was fine. Silence was familiar, and right now, it should have felt like an old friend.

Except it didn't. It bothered him, for reasons beyond his comprehension, that the silence that should be a relief to him only rubbed on his frayed nerves.

The new clothes on his bed waiting for him when they arrived back cheered him up, though, even if it was slightly. He’d wondered if they were expected to wear the same clothes forever. He went to throw them on but stopped, and Tucker must have seen his hesitation and realised his thought process because he let out a dry laugh from behind him.

"Don’t worry, I won’t look," he promised, but his voice was tight and clipped.

Wash didn’t respond to that, just waited for him to make good on his word and dressed quickly. Tucker must have done the same while facing out towards the room opposite, because when Wash chanced a glimpse back he was holding a pile of rumpled clothes in his hand.

"Leave them by the cell door," he stated, answering the question Wash didn’t have time to ask, and Wash felt thrown off by the coldness. Tucker must have felt it, because the next time he spoke, several minutes later, long enough for both of them to have resorted to staring at the floor and wall respectively, his voice was softer. "Nightmares?" he asked simply, and Wash stared at him, racking through his brain to connect the word to their previous conversations, to make it register in a way he understood, but he was left looking blankly at him until Tucker sighed and elaborated. "Do you get nightmares?"

Wash looked at him for a few more moments before slowly nodding.

"I do, too," Tucker said, and Wash was about to ask if that was all he was going to say when Tucker stepped past him and put a foot onto the bottom bunk, ready to pull himself up, but he paused. "Want me to wake you?"

Wash didn’t even need to think about it. "No."

"Okay."

His voice sounded odd, almost … hurt? Whatever it was, it left Wash scrambling to explain. "It’s just… not a good idea. Last time someone woke me up, well."

Still holding onto the bedframe, Tucker relaxed, and he offered Wash a smile. "Oh, right. Yeah, that’d suck. I need my arms, thanks. But if you’re going to break one, at least leave my left intact."

And with that he hoisted himself up, pulling himself onto his bed in one smooth motion. Wash started to respond, considered the options he had, and settled for keeping his mouth shut until Tucker poked his head over the side, grinning down at him. Wash actually huffed a breath that was almost a laugh and, still smiling, shook his head and climbed into the bottom bunk, pulling the sheets back and inspecting the mattress before he lay himself properly down on it.

Almost as if on cue, the lights went out. The sudden blackness that swallowed him seemed infinite. Immediately, he felt a heavy pressure on his chest, as if the darkness had an indescribable weight. As he sucked an involuntary breath in to combat the sensation of being breathless, he felt a sense of panic building up, every instinct in him hating the absolute dark that left him completely helpless.

How was he meant to fight? How was he meant to defend himself if he couldn’t _see?_ He’d spent a lot of his life in dark places, but he’d never felt so helplessly blind.

But Tucker started rustling around above him, followed by banging noises, followed by a muttered " _Ow_ ," that was probably louder than necessary, and Wash had a feeling he was doing it on purpose, to let him know he was there. It worked. Wash relaxed a little more into the bedding, the darkness seeming to recede around him, a little less thick, a little less impenetrable. 

And, as he did, he wondered how long Tucker had been in this place. A while, at least, to have settled in so well and have everything memorised. Maybe it was easy to remember. Yet chances were, from what he knew and how he acted, he’d been in here for some time now. Wash tried to ignore the part of his brain wondering _why._ It wasn’t his business, and Wash had long learned to keep his nose out of other people’s lives. He didn’t care for the _everyone's in here for good reason_ stigma that had been thrown at him from the cop when he was led into the centre originally, but he still felt a desire to know what the reason behind Tucker’s being in here was, to gauge how dangerous he was in case he proved to be a threat.

He briefly wondered about the others, the ones who he’d eaten with. Grif, with his easy going nature. Simmons, who seemed harmless, if not too knowledgeable. Caboose, with his big, multi-coloured eyes and disarming smile. Sarge he could understand, at the least. He looked like he’d seen a lot of shit in his life — but, Wash knew, it wasn’t always that easy. They could just as easily have been caught up in something far bigger than themselves.

He felt himself beginning to drift off, surprisingly comforted by the locked cell door and relatively solid walls around him despite the sensation of being blind. It was more security than he’d ever been offered, and he felt no threat from the boy above him.

Just before he drifted off, a thought snagged his attention and he pulled himself partly awake for a moment.

"Tucker?" he murmured tiredly, and when he heard an affirmative noise from above him he hesitated. "Want me to wake you up?"

There was a short pause before he answered. "No." 

They both drifted off to sleep after that, but it was only an hour or two later that Wash was woken for the first time by Tucker's rapid, fearful breathing. Then again, and a third time, when it became clear that the nightmare wasn't going to go away on its own. He'd lay there, waiting through the whimpers and muffled groans that signalled a nightmare, but this time the noises were higher in pitch, louder, and Wash tried not to wonder about what Tucker could be dreaming of.

Instead, he finally reached the decision to pull himself up to the edge of Tucker’s and wake him.

"Tucker," he called, quietly, and reached a hesitant hand out to shake him. 

As soon as his hand made contact with him, Tucker shot up. He shoved Wash away with a shout that got caught in his throat and scrambled back until he hit the wall. After a moment, the movements stopped, and the whisper that came next was filled with relief.

_"Church."_

Wash froze.

"Thanks, man," Tucker whispered, and Wash heard the sheets rustle as pulled his knees up against his body. "I didn’t mean to wake you up. I just… I kept seeing—"

"Wash," Wash interrupted, voice tight. "It’s Wash."

"Oh." Tucker's breathing was shallow and loud in the darkness. "Right. Sorry. I just— I don’t know why I thought it was Church. He’s been gone like, over a week."

Wash nodded, but stopped when he realised Tucker couldn’t see him. "It’s fine."

Silence hung between them for a few moments, until Tucker let out a quiet sigh. "Sorry."

"It’s fine—"

"For waking you," Tucker clarified, and Wash wasn't sure what else he thought he could have meant.

He hesitated, and then lay back down.  After another long moment, torn between reaching out and giving him space, Wash followed his cue and crawled back into his own bed. Before he could settle back down for sleep, Tucker spoke up again.

"You really don’t have to worry about waking me up."

Wash wondered whether Tucker knew if he'd had already tried that. "It's fine," he said, for the third time that night, and he could feel Tucker's relief even though he didn’t say a word.

* * *

Wash broke out of his doze the next morning at the sudden brightness that filled the small room. He startled, tried to jump out of his bed and move against the wall like he’d been taught, but when he got caught in the fabric it gave him a moment to come to his senses and realise where he was. He untensed, fell back against the bed with a sigh, only for Tucker poked his head over the edge and peeked down at him blearily a moment later.

"I hate mornings," he whined, looking at Wash for agreement, before he slid to the ground next to him.

Wash just shrugged. "I don’t mind them."

Tucker gaped. "Are you fucking kidding? It’s like, six a.m! We have fifteen to wake ourselves up while they do a headcount, and then another fifteen to drag ourselves out to the cafeteria and get our food. It’s bullshit, dude."

Wash shrugged again. "It’s food.I’m glad to be getting fed at all."

The silence that met his response made Wash shift uncomfortably. He opened his mouth — to say what, he didn’t know — but before he could he saw Tucker give a conceding nod in his direction.

"Fair point, I guess. Whatever, man, it totally doesn’t change the fact that it’s about five hours too early."

Despite all Tucker’s complaints about his tiredness, he managed to keep up a healthy stream of conversation until they reached the cafeteria hall, where he promptly sat down and shoved his face full of breakfast porridge.

"Hey, Tucker," Grif greeted, his entire bowl already gone.

"Yo," Tucker replied, mouth full of porridge, and Wash eyed him with a small measure of disapproval.

Simmons, who was opposite him and sat next to Grif, had the same expression. "You’re both pigs," he sighed.

Despite his air of nonchalance, Wash could feel the nervousness emanating from him. His movements were jerky and nervous, and he hadn't tucked his chair all the way in, leaving himself able for a quick escape — assumedly, if Wash were to do anything, such as launch himself across the table at him. The thought crossed his mind, but not as something for him to seriously consider. Just an option, he told himself. If anything more were to be said.

Tucker seemed to pick up on it, and he gave a loud groan. "You and Wash will get along  _fine_ ," he said, pointedly. "Look at you two, all dainty and shit. Like it matters how fast you eat the crap they feed you."

When Wash fixed him with an evaluating look, Tucker winked. Despite the bags under his eyes, (though they had been there before, Wash noted, he'd just never thought  _why)_ Tucker was as energetic and easy going as before. He wondered if that meant the nightmares were an every night occurrence.

His attention was drawn to Grif's next comment.

"So. Wash. You ready for your first day of learning?" 

Wash debated answering before he gave in. "Yes, actually. I think it'd be interesting."

Simmons perked up. "Oh, you’re into that stuff?"

His question was bold, but after a moment he seemed to remember who he was speaking to because he visibly wilted. He peeked from between his eyelashes and waited. After a moment, Wash nodded twice, once at Simmons as a gesture of ‘we’re okay’ and once more as an assent to his question.

"As far as I know. I haven’t exactly been before."

"Oh, no," Tucker sighed.

"Yeah, seriously, no," Grif agreed, shaking his head. "Trust me, it’s total shit. You'll see."

"Well I think it’s interesting," Simmons argued, sticking his nose up at them.

 _"How_  can you not be sick of it?" Grif groaned, putting his head in his hands. "You've been going nearly every day for two years!  _God,_ you are  _such_ a nerd."

Two years, Wash realised blankly. That was a long time. "How old are you?" 

Simmons just shrugged. "Seventeen." He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "I get out soon. Couple months."

"And I'll be shortly after," Sarge added, grandly. "Well before Grif, might I add."

Wash had his eyes on him, but he was aware of Tucker watching him, waiting to see how he’d respond. He probably thought he was subtle, but he wasn't, so after a moment of deliberation, Wash just nodded.

"Cool," he said, and went back to eating.

The conversation picked back up after that, and Wash felt a strange sense of contentment. It only changed pace from everyone listening to Grif and Simmons debate about the education system and Grif’s tendency to skip it all when Caboose arrived with a smaller figure at his side.

"Hey Caboose," Grif waved, as Caboose sat.

Sarge grunted at him as he sat, but Caboose simply gave a bright smile and proceeded to fold his hands over the table and wait. A second later, a bowl of porridge was placed in front of him, and he switched his gaze to stare longingly at it. A delicate hand pushed it closer to him.

"You can eat now, it’s cooled. And  _hey,_ guys!"

Tucker nudged Wash as everyone gave greetings. "That’s Donut. When he shakes your hand, say something nice."

Wash startled. "Wait, what?"

"And who might this lovely new addition be?" Donut asked, taking his seat on the spare side of Simmons. He directed a look at Tucker that demanded an introduction, so with a groan Tucker sat up and waved half-heartedly between the two.

"Donut, this is Washington. Washington, Donut." 

"It’s a pleasure to meet you! I love getting to know new people, inside and out," Donut enthused, reaching over and offering his hand.

Wash met him halfway. "You have, um. Really soft hands."

He shot a glance at Tucker, who was giving him a thumbs up. A moment later Donut retracted his hand, and Wash thought he’d said the wrong thing until Donut placed his free hand over his chest and proceeded to blush.

"Awww, thank you! That’s the loveliest thing anybody’s said to me in a while! It really is a pleasure to meet you, Washington."

Wash blinked at the sincerity in his words, his smile, and looked him over again. Donut was shortish, his platinum blonde hair made his freckles stand out, and he had a smile that really lit up a room. Surprisingly, Wash actually found himself offering a tentative smile back.

"Wash." He didn't think it was possible, but Donut smiled even brighter.

 _"Wash._  If you need anything, I’m your boy. Concessionary stuff, food, other assorted items, any miscellaneous services you may require." He paused to shoot a wink at him before his attention was gone again, already directed turned to talk to the others. "Sorry I’m late, guys, Caboose burned himself eating his porridge too fast so I had to go get him some cold water to drink, and then I had to go get some more porridge for both of us because  _somebody_ ate mine while I was gone…"

Simmons elbowed Grif. "Hey!" Grif threw his hands up in defence. "By now, you know the rules…"

As he started into some set of rules determined long before Wash arrived, Tucker drew Wash’s attention away with a nudge.

"Hey, don’t be too freaked out about Donut, that’s just how he is. He’s a really nice kid. But I’ll give you a word of advice. Don’t accept any of his… miscellaneous services. Not if you want to be a part of this group. I won’t explain it now, but just don’t."

They had a short staring match while Wash tried to make sense of his words. "Okay," he said eventually, because Tucker was starting to look suspicious and Wash still didn’t really know what he was talking about.

Tucker rolled his eyes, leaned in close. "He sleeps around," he stated, and Wash coughed around his mouthful of food. "It’s a… thing. You’ll hear a lot of people talking about him, and he might offer it, but don't even think about it. Just don’t accept, got it?"

Wash was still reeling to take in this information. "Wait a minute,  _what?_ "

"He sleeps around. With everyone. Got an issue?"

" _No—_ I just don't—" Wash started, but he was interrupted by a loud ringing sound that echoed around the cafeteria. " _What_ is _that?"_

"Class time, son." Sarge answered him. "Lotta fun."

"You goin’?" Tucker asked, and flicked his gaze to include Grif.

"Uh, no?"

Sarge sighed. "Might as well. Got a few more months of this…" he muttered some words under his breath Wash couldn’t hear, and then picked right back up. "Might as well make a decent impression."

Tucker stood. "Let's go, or Wash will probably get lost and have to rely on Caboose or something."

"Fine. But you and I have some business to attend to." Tucker shot him a sharp look that he didn't miss, and he turned and side eyed Wash. "Whatever. Let’s go."

* * *

By the end of the school day, Tucker had lost all reservation about loudly vocalising his regret. "I  _told_ you, damn it," he repeated, as they exited the block and began their way down the halls. "We could've just skipped!"

 "Absolute  _waste_ ," Grif agreed, and they shared matching expressions of regret.

Simmons frowned. "We might have missed something if we didn't come," he protested.

"But we  _did_ come and big fucking surprise, we  _didn't_ miss anything!" 

"Yeah, dude. Goddamn."

"It's the principle of the matter. You have to—  _what,_ Grif?" 

"Simmons," Grif sighed, trying to sound world weary and tired beyond his years. "It's just not worth coming while all the essential classroom items keep getting stolen. And, unfortunately, all the new ones just  _keep_ getting lost."

Simmons shook his head. "Assholes in this place, no regard for the sanctity of learning. If I ever found out who was doing it, I'd..."

When Simmons trailed off, Grif turned to him, trying to look innocently interested. "You'd what?" 

Simmons flushed red. "I'd, you know, beat them up!"

Tucker burst into laughter.

"You'd beat them up?" Grif repeated, words coming out loaded with barely repressed laughter of his own. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Simmons burned even redder. "Shut up, I could do it! The fuck do you know?!"

Grif didn't respond. Instead, he drew himself to his full height, coming up to a not very impressive few centimetres below Simmons' shoulders. It was Simmons' turn to laugh.

"Keep laughing, Simmons," Grif shot back, and reached into his pants.

Tucker and Wash flinched away with mutual exclamations of disgust, before Grif retrieved a packet of chalk and dangled it smugly in Simmons' face. It took a few seconds to realise what that meant.

"So how about that, Simmons? Still planning on,  what was it... _beating me up?"_

Simmons shot Grif a look of poison.

"Come on, don't be an asshole," Tucker interrupted, half-heartedly trying to defuse the growing tension. "Just 'cos Church is gone doesn't mean we need somebody to fill his place."

"Yeah, yeah." To Simmons' obvious disgust Grif shoved the chalk packet back down into his pants. They arrived at the end of the corridor, and he sighed again, this time sounding legitimately tired. "Tucker, that was a long day. How about a nice walk?" 

Tucker looked up from where he'd been massaging his temples. He turned to shoot a look at Wash, hesitating when he saw him frowning at kids who were pushing by a little too close. Almost on cue, out of the crowd came Donut, who happily stood himself at his side, offering them all individual greetings in a bright and cheery tone.

"I guess his day went a little better," Simmons muttered bitterly.

"Tucker," Grif repeated, this time harder, when Tucker still looked undecided.

Tucker hesitated again before giving in. He chewed on his lip and turned to Donut. "You got him?" he asked, nodding towards Wash.

Donut nodded. "Sure! I’ll give him a  _thorough_  rundown of all the things you’ve probably missed!"

"Don’t say it like that," Tucker grumbled. He turned to Simmons. "Do me a favour and keep an eye on Wash, would you?"

"Fuck that, I’ve got shit to do!"

Tucker ignored him. "Let’s go."

Wash watched their departure. "Where are they going?"

"Nowhere," Simmons sighed, shaking his head. "Let’s go. I think Sarge is already back at the rec room, and I don't want to leave you alone again considering what happened last time."

As he spoke they began to walk, and Wash noticed the small signs on the walls. They were in the shape of an arrow, pointing in the direction they needed to go, with the room names etched into the wood. Simple, but effective, Wash surmised. He’d keep that in mind if he ever got lost.

"Rec room?" Wash asked, remembering to reply just a little too late.

Donut perked up. "Oh, yeah, you’re going to  _love_ the rec room! It’s where everyone goes for an hour after the classes finish. Then, we have an hour of nothing."

"It’s exercise hour, Donut. You’re meant to actually  _do_ something, not sit around with hansy pansy talk and painted nails!" Sarge popped up at Donut’s side. "Simmons! Where’s Grif? And the dirty blue?"

"Uh, they said they had a long day," Simmons said, peeking a glance at Wash, who suddenly felt very left out.

Sarge’s expression darkened.

"Anyway!" Donut bubbled. "After the free hour—"

_"Exercise_  hour."

"— we have dinner! Followed by showers, which are my favourite part of the day. I just  _love_ scrubbing myself until I’m all nice and clean. Getting myself all soaped up, covered in a nice thick lather—"

"Anyway," Simmons interrupted, "I’m gunna go watch the tv."

"I think I’ll join you," Sarge agreed immediately, and they both hurried across the room, Simmons glancing over his shoulder at Wash apologetically as they fled.

"Don't you agree?" Donut continued, zoning in on Wash. "The feeling of nice warm water running down my body just  _really_ gets me going. You know what I mean, Wash?"

Wash startled at being addressed, tearing his gaze away from where Simmons looked like he was mouthing something at him. "Huh?"

"Don’t you think it’s nice?"

"What is?" He glanced distractedly back to where Simmons had now resorted to making frantic hand gestures at him.

Suddenly, Donut was at his side, and his voice was velvet in Wash's ear. "The feeling of nice, warm hands on your body, taking good care of you. Getting you all... worked up."

Wash stared. His mind stuttered and came to a halt as he tried to comprehend what was happening. He felt his defences rise and he took a step back in response, but Donut matched him step for step.

"You know," he murmured, and the movement of his hands towards his stomach told Wash that Donut was about two seconds off touching him, "we don’t even have to wait for showers."

His hand trailed promisingly along Wash's hips at the same time he grabbed Wash by the hand, probably intending to pull him out of the room, but that wasn't how it happened.

The second he'd made contact all rational thought was gone from Wash's mind. The next thing he knew Donut was stumbling back, red spilling from his lips and a harsh intake of breath whistling through the fingers of the hand he clapped over his mouth. Slowly, he lifted his other hand, and the unnatural angle of his fingers made Wash freeze.

He'd done that. 

Reality came slamming back the second Donut met his eyes, the white noise that Wash didn't realize had overtaken his senses replaced by the shouting around him.

Too late, the security officers stationed in the room intervened and grabbed Wash from behind, dragging him away from Donut. He was still staring at his now broken hand in shock as blood dribbled from his mouth, and Wash let himself get carted away. For a second his eyes locked with Simmons', who was halfway through shouting as he moved for Donut. His gaze drifted to Sarge, and he shuddered — the dark look in Sarge's eyes promised violence, and he suddenly felt the world spinning sickeningly around him as he realised what he'd done.

He was hauled away, pulled out of sight within moments. He barely forced down the rising urge to panic, the inherent and automatic sensation that came with being manhandled, pulled along so roughly it made him want to fight it. However, he was on his own two feet, and the restricting hands that kept his arms painfully behind his back weren't doing anything other than holding him despite that he was being moved along with such force.

So he _breathed_ , and tried to think through the chaos of his mind. Despite that the thoughts in his head were racing at a million miles an hour, he kept his panic swallowed down into a tight ball in his stomach, ignoring the way it felt like the hands around his wrists and on his shoulder blade were burning into his skin.

Without any idea how, he kept himself in check, and barely a minute later he was deposited roughly into a small room with a bed and the door was locked behind him. No questions. No talking. Just the echoes of fading footsteps as he stared at the floor, letting his breathing even out, letting the silence wash over him. His sweaty hands were wiped on his shirt as he slid down against the wall opposite the door, trying to make sense of what had happened.

It had been impossibly fast.

"Just make sense of it," he said aloud, and nodded to himself, wiping his hands again.

He'd hurt Donut. He hadn't meant to — hadn't really realized what he was doing even as he'd done it, and where did that leave him? Somewhere in between the stunned limbo of disbelief and the growing fearful realisation that he'd just fucked up. 

Subconsciously, he wrung his hands together, a nervous tic in response to the jumble of emotions flooding through his system. Apprehension. Fear. Anxiety. A bit of resentment, mostly at himself. What did this mean for him? He'd been specifically warned against any type of touching Donut, and now he'd left him with a broken hand and maybe broken teeth—

— he'd blinked, or he'd thought he had, but now he could remember how he'd snapped Donut's fingers backwards with his right hand and threw a punch with his left—

— because Donut had touched him, had dragged his hands along his belt line and tried to pull him from the room when Wash had been —

_—warned_ , don't touch Donut, don't do it,  _if you want to be a part of this group, don't accept._

He hadn't accepted. His form of not accepting involved Donut flying backwards, barely keeping himself on his feet, a trembling hand reaching tentatively to cover his mouth as his eyes dropped slowly to his fingers. Wash being hauled away as tears filled Donut's bright blue eyes.

_It wasn't any better_. He wasn't even sure how it had happened. 

Slowly, aware of the throbbing in the back of his head as he tried to repress the sickly nausea threatening to overtake him, he forced himself to stand and move towards the bed. The headache forming did nothing to alleviate the feeling of the room crushing in on him, the tightening walls squeezing the air out of his lungs. He leaned against the wall and put his head between his knees and tried not to feel like the world was falling in on him.

For once, his instincts had taken him the wrong way. He'd acted without thinking, and he'd hurt someone he shouldn't have. The way Sarge had  _looked at him—_

The sound of footsteps approaching made Wash tense. He held his breath, backed up against the wall without being aware of it, and trained his eyes on the door. Unlike the rooms, which had solid walls on three sides and only bars at the front, this was a proper cell, with bars on all sides but the wall that Wash was backed against. An officer stopped in front of the door, carelessly slapping a piece of paper down on the floor inside the cell. A second later, a pen followed, and he backed up a few steps and crossed his arms expectantly.

Wash's eyes darted between the paper and the officer.

"Fill it in," he was finally ordered, so Wash tentatively hurried forward and secured the items, backing up immediately as he glanced over the form.

He stared at it, but no matter how hard he looked the lines they refused to hold any meaning for him. He hesitated for a long moment before looking up at the officer, who stood impatiently in front of the cell. Finally, the words pulled themselves from within him, accompanying a flush of embarassment.

"I can't read."

The officer laughed. "Yeah, I haven't heard that one before."

Wash shuffled on the spot, uncertain what else to do. Eventually, the guard noticed he still hadn't started reading, and for several moments he watched him.

"Stop fucking around, get started," he said, but then the smile dropped from his face. "You're kidding me. There's six pages of information there. Tell me you can write."

The look Wash gave him made it pretty clear. For a long time, the guard stared at him, eyes narrowed as he evaluated him. Then, he abruptly turned and marched off. Wash waited, face tight with anxiety and apprehension at what was happening while he was stuck in the small room. It took what felt like a long time before the sound of the guard's returning footsteps reached his ears.

Without a word, he thrust a hand out expectantly. After a moment, Wash hesitantly offered the pen and paper back, and they were immediately snatched from his grip. The guard stared down at him, distrust and anger marring his face.

"I'm not reading this out and filling it in for you." He was met with more silence. _"Jesus_  christ. Look. You filled it in, it got lost on the way. Real tragedy."

Wash stared at him, and the guard took his silence as an agreement. He grabbed the keys on his belt and unlocked the door.

Hesitantly, Wash moved towards it. Greeted by seething impatience, he slipped past and hurried down the hall, a few quick glances over his shoulder assuring him that the guard wasn't moving after him anytime soon. He was in the process of crumpling the unfilled report in his hand as Wash rounded a corner, and the relief that filled him that he was out of the room was quickly replaced by fear and worry when he remembered  _why_ he was in there in the first place.

Where was he meant to go? What would he do?

All he could think about was how at risk he was, how he was defenceless and out in the open, but he didn't have anywhere to go. He couldn't go to Tucker, and he couldn't find his way back to his cell, and now he had nobody to ask because he'd just attacked the friend of the only possible friends that he goddamn  _had_ —

He needed to get somewhere relatively private, because he could feel his walls crumbling, the promises of a panic attack sinking their claws into him. He rounded corner after corner, aware that he was only getting more and more lost but unable to reign himself in enough to figure out a way. By the time he stumbled into an area that was somewhat familiar, he was drawing in ragged gasps, tears blurring his vision and his pulse pounding in his temples, drowning all other noise out.

He barely noticed the figure approach behind him, until his name was called hesitantly.

"Wash?"

Wash whirled and was met with Simmons, who was watching him with wide eyes.

"I, um— are you... okay?"

Wash stared, waiting for the words to register over the relentless pounding of his heart. His mouth was dry, and his tongue barely worked, so it was with an effort that he choked out: "I need—" he managed, but that was as far as he got, so he gestured around him.

"Need what?" Simmons asked, looking more terrified as every moment passed. "Holy shit, are you dying? Oh my god, I am way too young to be this traumatised."

On a dim level, Wash was aware he was freaking him out, but he was  _barely_ keeping himself above water, and that was all he could think about as he stumbled forward and blindly tried to open the first door he could see. It was locked, but Simmons finally understood.

"Oh, shit — uh, here," he ushered, guiding him further down the hall.

When he opened the door, Wash all but fell inside, crawling into the darkness and pressing his back against the nearest thing he could find. He drew his knees up and rested against them, making a haven for himself.

"Lock the door," he croaked out, and Simmons scrambled to obey him, making it to the door before hesitating.

"Done," he called, and Wash collapsed back against the wall.

It took a long time for his ragged breaths to even out, for the trembling to dissipate, for Wash to finally feel like he could breathe without crumbling completely. It took even longer for him to believe that he was alright, that the threat had passed, and that the phantom weight against his chest wasn't there anymore. His eyes were prickling and sore, and his tongue felt like sandpaper, but he'd pulled himself back from the edge of a full blown panic attack and he was exhausted.

"You need anything?" Simmons asked hesitantly.

Slowly, the tilt and whirl of his stomach settled, enough for him to swallow down the tightness of his throat and shake his head. Simmons nodded and leant back against the wall, darting nervous glances over at Wash occasionally. When a few more minutes had passed with no sign of movement, Simmons licked his lips.

"You past the worst of it?" he asked. Wash lifted his head, and after a moment, nodded. "Panic attack, right?"

A few beats of silence. "The beginning of one."

"Oh."

Finally, Wash began to force himself out of his little safe haven and back into cold, hard reality. "Where are we?" he managed, turning to face Simmons in the darkness.

"Empty classroom," came the reply. "I hope that's okay, I mean, I didn't have time to get you somewhere better."

"It's fine," Wash said, and internally he wondered why Simmons had helped him at all. He wanted to ask, and he would, later, but for now he was content just to lean against the wall and pretend the small, dark room was all there was.

On second thoughts, he didn't think he was ready for reality just yet. But apparently Simmons was.

"I didn't know you got panic attacks," he said hesitantly, getting up and moments later crouching down somewhere near him. "Not that I should know, really. I mean, I just. Ugh, nevermind. What did they do to you in the cell?" he asked, but it looked like he was afraid of the answer.

Wash shook his head. "Nothing."

"Well, you came out of the holding area like a bat out of hell, on the verge of a panic attack, so I figure it must have been something."

How was Wash meant to explain that it was the weight of the past few days building up on him? That the overwhelming tornado of emotions he wasn't used to, beyond the apprehension and fear he'd lived most his life in, had shredded his defences and torn down his walls?

_Almost_ , he corrected himself. He'd fought it, and he'd won.

"Why are you here?" he asked, realising it was a very valid question considering the circumstances.

"To make sure you're okay," Simmons replied, looking confused. "No, I like hanging out in dark, empty classrooms for no reason."

"I mean, why are you talking to me?"

Simmons gestured vaguely. "To make sure you're okay," he repeated, looking like he was wondering if Wash had brain damage.

" _Why?"_  

"I don't—"

"I attacked your friend!" Wash blew a noisy breath out his nose, annoyance rising, frustrated that he had to say the words aloud.

It was quiet for a long moment, as Simmons pursed his lips and focused on the floor, a crease between his eyebrows appearing as he debated internally. Finally he raised a shoulder and dropped it, but the motion was vague, hesitant, the same as his voice when he said, "Well, yeah, but... I mean, you know. Don't forget you didn't just... attack him out of the blue. He was... demanding?" His voice came out higher in pitch than he'd intended, and he winced.

"What's your point?"

"Well... personal space, and Donut..."

"I shouldn't have hit him."

The words were foreign, and he didn't actually mean them in the slightest, but he couldn't help but feel like what he'd done to Donut was excessive.

Simmons watched the rapidly forming goosebumps on his arms before flicking his eyes back up to Wash's face. "That's not true. I mean, you didn't need to like, break his hand, but don't think for a moment you shouldn't fight back if somebody's touching you without your consent."

That was Wash's thought process entirely, but hearing it reflected back at him from Simmons, who'd known him for not long at all but had known Donut since he'd been here, was jarring.

"You're meant to stick up for him." It sounded like an accusation.

"Why? Fuck that. If someone tries that shit, defend yourself!"

Wash shifted, uncomfortable. "It wasn't completely like that," he said, because it was true. It was  _his_ fault, reacting too hard and too fast, when it hadn't been necessary. "I just..."

"Hit first, ask questions later?" Wash nodded, somewhat miserably. "Badass," Simmons hissed under his breath. "Anyway, I know Donut would never  _mean_ to do that, like, without anybody's permission. He's just enthusiastic, and doesn't always see when he's pushed a button. It's just unfortunate your button was personal space, you happen to be a trained fighter, and Donut's kinda defenceless."

Wash scrubbed at his face and nodded. "I just—" he broke off, stunned.  _"Trained fighter?"_  

Simmons hesitated, wrung his hands together. "Look, I— I read your file, right?" Wash nodded slowly, his mouth twisting in distaste at the reminder. "But I’m getting the feeling it’s not all there is. Man, that sounded dramatic."

"I’ve been here two days," Wash said slowly, and that was his way of saying Simmons had no idea what he was talking about.

Simmons just nodded. "Yep. And in that time, look what you've accomplished. You beat two of the juvies biggest morons, who by extension are some of the biggest threats, in a two on one surprise fight." He paused to let that sink in, like Wash should be impressed. _"And_ you beat the shit out of Donut—"

"I didn't  _beat the shit_ out of him. I broke his hand and... hurt his lip."

"Look, you're sticking up for yourself!" 

"Against a gross exaggeration— look, I don't mean to be rude, but I don’t know where you’re going with this."

With a pained sigh, Simmons got to the point. "So, I think you’re a trained fighter."

When Wash didn’t react, simply kept staring past him, Simmons continued, painfully aware of how the last time he’d opened his big mouth around Wash had nearly ended, and how they were in a  _really small_  classroom, all alone, and Wash was kind of edgy... He was suddenly nervous.

"Right? I mean, that’s just how it looks, after viewing all the evidence, that’s just the conclusion that I came to. It’s probably not right, actually, probably wrong. Definitely wrong. In fact, forget I ever said anything."

"It's not... that," Wash interrupted, but he didn’t lift his gaze to meet Simmons’ eyes. He just kept them focused on the desk to the side of him.

"Huh?"

"It’s technically... street fighting — ring fighting. I — we weren’t  _trained_ for anything. They took homeless kids who’d had to learn how to survive and threw them into a ring against each other. Sometimes there’d be weapons, bottles and knives and two by fours. Other times it was just our fists. Point was that we trained ourselves."

Simmons gaped at him, eyes big behind his glasses, and Wash trailed off in a mutter.

"Just... nothing trained about it. Just starving, scared kids who didn’t have any other choice but to kill each other to survive."

"Did you really kill people?"

"I generally tried to avoid it." His answer was short, terse, and to the point.

"Oh! Sorry. You probably don’t want to… sorry."

Wash sighed. "What was the point of that? Aside from confirming your theory. Don’t we have bigger problems to worry about?"

"Well... honestly, Wash, I think it'll be okay. Like, really. Sometimes shit happens, y'know, mistakes are made. It’s not like you had a proper warning, anyway, and God knows Donut can come across badly sometimes. Really, they’ll understand. It might just take a while."

Wash hesitated. "Do you really think so?"

"About the mistakes bit, or the forgiving you bit, because—"’

"Forgiving me. For hurting your friend. Why do you think they would do that?" He looked up at Simmons, brow furrowed with honest confusion.

He didn't exactly have very good notions of loyalty, but he understood the concept. This situation didn't seem to fit into it, but he was too tired and strung out to care.

Simmons shook his head, and his words were soft. "I think they understand the need to protect yourself."

Wash hesitated at his honesty, but remained unconvinced. Finally he stood and gestured for Simmons to open the door. Relieved, Simmons did so, and after peeking out to make sure the hallway was clear he ushered Wash out and closed the door behind them. It didn't go amiss on Wash that he didn't have to unlock it, because he'd never locked it in the first place.

"Really, it wont be a big deal," Simmons eventually said, and he looked Wash in the eye. "I know that getting dragged to a holding cell for hitting Donut looked dramatic, and for all intents and purposes, it was, but it's not like it's unforgivable. Grif probably won't care. Caboose won't even understand, and I've already moved on. Grif's right sometimes, y'know. Drama."

"What about Tucker? Will he care?"

Simmons paused for a moment. "Yeah."

Wash felt his stomach drop, a surge of worry running sickly through him, followed by a wave of exhaustion. The day already felt like it had dragged on forever, like too much had already happened within the short time span. Realistically, he guessed it had, but exhausting days should be nothing new to him.

"Why?" he asked, slowly.

"He's just, y'know, protective of him."

"Protective."

"Yeah." They walked for a few more moments. "He and Grif won't be at the mess hall for dinner."

Wash stiffened. "Why? Is it—"

"No, they just have other things they need to do. He'll probably be missing for showers, too, so don't worry."

"Why?" 

"It's a good thing for you, I think," Simmons continued, ignoring him. "Look, I don't think you should mention it to him tonight." Wash looked alarmed. Before he could ask why, Simmons hurried on. "It's just easier if  _we_  explain it. Like, Grif and I. Trust me. Tucker's protective of Donut, like I said, and you kinda, well, hurt him. So yeah,  _probably_  best to leave it for tonight."

Wash didn't answer, and Simmons didn't look at him. They continued their walk in relative quiet, tuning out the outside noise in favour of focusing on their thoughts.  

"You know," Simmons said, when they arrived at the mess hall. "For what it's worth, I mean, Tucker seems to be a little protective of you, too."

Wash had to swallow down his immediate sarcastic response, but when he found nothing to say to that, he spat it out anyway. "Two days," he reminded, wincing at the flat and bitter tone to his voice.  

Simmons nodded, unperturbed. "Yeah, but you already fit right in."

He walked into the mess hall without looking to see if Wash was following, leaving Wash standing in the doorway, pondering the significance of that, and wondering whether it was possible that  _fitting right in_ might somehow be a blessing in disguise. 


	5. afraid to touch the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you.
> 
> read & review, yo

A knife, slick with his blood, held easily in the hands of someone far stronger than he. It darted out, sliced across his ribs, and as Wash crashed to his knees he knew two things.

One, the entertainment value was quickly running out. Slicing looked good, but the audience wanted violence and bloodshed, gore and death. The next shot would be straight into him, wherever it could land. His neck, probably, or maybe his stomach. 

Two, Wash was dreaming. It was a memory he knew all too well, one that had left him with more scars mentally than it had physically and that was saying a _lot_. One of the rare times he found himself completely outmatched, with someone stronger, faster and deadlier than he was. He’d never forget it. He _couldn’t_. Not with the marks it left him.

The knife slashed past his face and he cried out, fear building rapidly within him as he saw it come down on the return swing and make its home right in the middle of his stomach, knocking the air out of him. P

Then, he didn’t really feel anything at all. He just clasped his hands around the wound as the knife was yanked out, and it was on sole survival instinct rather than anything that he threw himself backwards and avoided the next thrust of the knife. He didn’t move, knowing that there was a small chance that he could live if he didn’t twitch a muscle. No, he knew that’s what would happen, because he’d lived through this already. It had happened before.

He knew what to do. He just had to lie still. There, now he could hear the countdown—

_Three._

—echoing in his ears, and—

_Two._

Countdown?

_One._

He felt two sets of hands on him and he wasn't in a memory anymore, he didn't know where he was, and he was screaming, screaming. He couldn’t die here, he was meant to live, he—

_"Wash!"_

Wash slammed back into reality. His scream got caught in his throat and he _choked._ He wasn't aware that he was moving but he was, lashing out at the two blurry figures that were near him, in striking distance. He tried to get to his feet and found himself caught, unaware that the unfamiliar fabric restraining him was his sheets, and the terror racing through him only served to feed the panic that was icy inside him.

"Grab him—"

" _No, don’t!"_

Wash snarled as two hands grabbed a hold of his shirt, and they let go as quickly as they’d taken hold. His eyes were wide but unseeing, and he was unable to see anything but a wall of red through his fear and panic. But slowly, slowly, it was fading, and—

"Wash?" 

A hand reached towards him placantingly, hands out and palms empty, at the same time as the soft voice spoke. Wash twitched towards him. He forced himself to stay still, and against all instincts, closed his eyes.

"Hey, man," the voice said again.

He blinked. Breathed. Tried to force the red haze away. Wash knew that voice. Tucker. He must have spoken up, because—

"Yeah, it’s Tucker."

Tucker.

Three beats of deafening silence, and it finally hit home. The last of the panic faded and he crumpled.The bed was hard beneath him, though not as hard as the cold ground, and he gripped it tightly with two hands and breathed. When he raised his head next he could see. Tucker was still holding his hands out, but when Wash raised his head he flinched back the tiniest step. Guilt flushed through him, amongst a flood of emotion, and he felt himself begin to shake. 

Tucker took an apologetic step forward, but Wash shook his head and tried to move further back against the bed.

"Don’t," he said, hoarsely.

"It’s alright. It's okay. Just... calm, dude." 

He became increasingly aware of Tucker's hesitant advance, but Tucker had his eyes focused on Wash’s shaking hands.

"It’s alright," he repeated, and a long minute passed in silence until Wash's breathing had steadied out. When he was sure he was stable, Tucker chanced a glance at Grif, and nodded towards the door to the cell. "Dude, can you go tell Simmons we'll be late?"

Grif hesitated, but didn't move. "Actually... I need to talk to Wash."

Tucker's eyebrows shot up. "Uh, okay. How about like, not right now? The dude's freaked. Kinda not the best time."

Grif gave him a long, evaluating look before his eyes returned to Tucker. "He's fine. You’re fine, aren’t you Wash?"

Wash just swallowed and looked down at his hands, willing them to stop shaking.

"Yeah, he’s fucking dandy," Tucker scoffed. "I mean, did you miss all that? Were you not there? The whole, nightmare and panic thing, because—"

Grif held up a hand in a _spare me_ gesture. "I don't care," he interrupted. "Tucker, get out. I gotta talk to him."

Tucker looked between the two of them before narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Why?" he asked, rocking back onto his heels.

"You’ll find out later. Now scram, dude." Grif made shooing gestures. "Vamoose."

Tucker made no move to leave. He glanced at Wash before casually moving in front of him. "You didn’t answer my question, asshole. What do you want?"

Wash wasn’t sure what to think of Tucker’s display of protection. It didn’t ease the guilt rolling through him about the fact that he didn't know. About Donut, about it being kept from him, and about how what Grif wanted to talk to him about probably revolved around it.

Grif eyed Tucker. "Hey, _you_ pulled _me_ in here to help wake up sleeping beauty. I’m just taking the opportunity to have a little talk."

Tucker straightened. "If this is about Simmons the other day, he was way out of line. The dude should know not to go sticking his nose in everything. Hell, I would have been pissed—"

"It’s not about that," Grif cut in impatiently. "And from what I’ve heard, I’m more in danger of getting _my_ ass kicked than _he_ is. So if you would move out of the fucking way, I’d like to get this over with and get to breakfast. _Before_ I’m later than you’ve already made me. Seriously, you are _not_ more important than food."

Tucker glanced back at Wash.

"It's fine," he eventually agreed, because Tucker looked like he was waiting for an answer.

Putting his hands up in defeat, Tucker shook his head. "Alright. Just trying to help, or whatever."

He stopped to mutter something to Grif before they slapped hands and he was gone. Wash watched him go, worry gnawing at his insides. What would happen when he found out?

"Yo," Grif snapped his fingers in front of Wash’s face, reminding him of his presence, and Wash flinched, keeping himself in check by some scrap of self control. "Get with it."

"I nearly broke your fingers," Wash replied coldly. "Watch yourself."

Grif groaned. "Uh, can we not do this? Let's skip this whole _I'm a damaged kid with a shitty life story_  thing, yeah? You’ve got enough on your plate and frankly, so do I. Tucker’s not going to be happy when he found out you smashed Donut." When Wash’s eyes flicked up to him, Grif laughed. "Yeah, I heard all about that. The first thing Simmons did was come find me."

Wash had been right. He straightened, keeping his back to the bunk, but Grif read him like an open book.

"Relax," he snorted. "Dude probably asked for it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love the kid, but I'm not gunna lie, I've wanted to hit him once or twice." He narrowed his eyes. "But I don't actually _do it_ , that's the thing."

Wash shifted around a step. "I'm not sure how much an apology is worth," he edged, buying time.

Grif looked at him peculiarly. "Not much," he agreed. "But it's not me you owe an apology to, if anyone."

"I don't understand. You're not angry with me?"

"Didn't you have this conversation with Simmons yesterday?" Before he could answer, Grif answered for him. "Yeah, you did, because he word for worded the convo for me. Like, every detail. It was boring as fuck."

Wash was torn between being wary that Grif was aware of his _almost but not quite_ breakdown yesterday, relieved he didn't seem to care despite that that seemed to be his response to everything, or frustrated about the fact that nobody seemed to be responding how he expected them to respond. It really fucked with his preconceptions of anything. He didn't have much to start with, but they were crumbling down every expectation he'd had.

He tried to word that, and failed spectacularly.

"It's simple. Did you punch the dude in self-defense or not?" 

"Well—" Wash was thrown, undermined by the question. "I... there was a reason for me, yes, but—"

"Did you defend yourself?" 

Trying to put his mind on Grif's wavelength, Wash nodded hesitantly. "But he wasn't attacking me?"

"Mmhm," Grif nodded. "How about you answer me when you have something that isn't a question."

He turned and started walking, and after a quick look around Wash followed suit. "I'm not sure what you want to hear," he admitted, unease rising as he moved into an open hallway.

"That's the problem," Grif told him. When Wash did nothing more than stare at him, Grif sighed. "You don't think your reasoning stands up? Donut came onto you," he shuddered, "you didn't like it, you defended yourself."

"With excessive force."

Grif raised an eyebrow at him. "Was it?"

"Well—" he faltered. He struggled to come up with something that would make Grif make a little more sense, with little success. As they closed the distance towards the mess hall, he sighed heavily, already wishing he could fall back asleep. "I'm not trying to defend myself, why are you?" he asked, eventually.

He got a shrug in response, but for several moments, Grif didn't look at him. When he did, it was with a serious look Wash wasn't aware he was capable of expressing. "I just believe in fair trials, dude. People deserve to get their side of the story out."

There was something else there, something deeper, but Grif didn't elaborate and Wash didn't dare press.

"Anyway, we're almost at the mess hall, and Tucker's gunna be there. Basically, I'm pretty sure I know your side of the story. Simmons told me, and he was there to begin with, and he was there when you got let out of the holding cells. And he recalled, as I said earlier, every little detail about what happened. His memory is fucking flawless, remember? And Simmons isn't wrong. Not about shit like this. So I've heard all I needed to hear."

Aware that Grif had stopped walking in order to tell him that, and that they now stood off to the side, just out of sight of the doors to the mess hall, Wash struggled to find a response.

"Does this mean... what does this mean?"

"Tucker will probably be pissed, Sarge will be pissed, but the rest of us just don't really give a fuck," Grif summed up. When Wash remained unconvinced, he groaned, and palmed his forehead with a loud smack. "Alright, yeah, they're gunna turn it into this big drama thing. Sarge will hate you for eternity, but he hates everyone. And Tucker will get over it, because you didn't like, _kill_ him, and it wasn't totally out of the blue, so who cares? God, I hate all the whiny bullshit that happens around here. This doesn't need to be what it's turning into: a big dramatic episode. Hence me trying to cut it all short. Plus, Simmons promised me something after breakfast if I at least  _tried_ to make you feel better."

Wash didn't get a chance to respond to that, even if he'd had the words.

"Look, everybody in here has a story. Some of them are bad, some of them are bullshit, and some of them make you wanna curl into a ball and cry all night because the world’s a fucking bitch. Some of them scare you. If you stick around here, and _if_ you stick around," he looked at Wash meaningfully, "you’ll find it all out. Until then, just take baby steps. One at a time. Get through surviving your first week here, and you’ll go alright. Trust me."

Wash peered at him, and Grif looked around to make sure that there was still nobody watching.

"We good?" he asked, and Wash hesitantly nodded at him, trying to work through everything that had just been said to ensure he'd fully understood it.

"We’re good," he repeated, when Grif raised his eyebrows.

There was a loud groan as Grif leaned off the wall. "Thank god. All this serious talk is making me hungry. _Why_ do you gotta go and make everything all dramatic? You’ve been here like, a day."

It elicited a surprising reaction out of Wash: a small laugh. "You’d be surprised. I have a knack for it, apparently."

"Yeah, well, keep that shit away from me. I’m trying to keep life simple," Grif informed him, as they pushed through the double doors. "That's some life advice. Take it."

"Right. Thanks for that wisdom."

"Just call me master, young padawan.  _Wise one_  works as well."

"Grif! Wash!" Simmons waved them down from the table as they approached, and gestured to the two extra trays. "We got you food."

Grif lit up and quickened his pace. "Oh, Simmons, it turns out I don’t hate you after all," he crooned, taking his seat next to him.

"Wow," Simmons sighed, head propped up by his hand. "What a ringing endorsement. Do you think I could use that in my application letter for getting the fuck out of here?"

"Fuck yeah, dude, and write mine while you’re at it," Tucker cheered. Wash finally risked a glance at him, and he was offered a smile. "Sup, Wash."

Wash smiled back, but it dropped almost immediately, slipping off of his face as soon as Tucker looked away. He directed his gaze towards the table uncertainly as the conversation picked back up.

"Anyway, where’s Sarge?" Tucker was asking. "I mean, believe me, I’m not complaining, but normally he’s here yelling at us to shut up or something by now. The guy’s too old for his years. Seventeen going on sixty."

"Uh," Simmons managed, and actually put a forkful of food in his mouth just to avoid talking.

Grif took over. "He’s, um, still in the room, I think," he offered lamely.

Tucker just nodded. "Oh, cool. Man, everyone’s late this morning. Where’s Donut?"

With a loud clatter, Caboose put his fork down, focusing his full attention on answering Tucker.  "Aw, he's in the infirmary."

Tucker froze. "What?"

"Yeah," Grif broke in, "because he felt like pleading sick and stealing some more codeine."

Tucker seemed content with that answer, nodding and sinking back down into his seat, and despite that it was a blatant lie and Wash knew it he couldn't help but frown. "You can do that?" 

Grif perked up. "Why, you interested?"

"No, no—" Wash cringed at the implication. "I just can’t see how that’s possible. Wait a minute, _Donut_ does that?"

Tucker snickered at him. "Yeah, dude."

"Donut steals drugs from the infirmary," Wash repeated, looking between them for clarification.

"Why, you got a problem with that?"

Wash stammered. "What? No. No, that’s not a problem. It’s just..."

It was a little problem. Drugs didn’t sit well with him.

"He doesn’t steal it for himself," Grif finally told him, rolling his eyes. "Think of him like a broker. He’ll steal it for other people, and other people will pay him for it. It’s a trade. Barter system."

Wash’s mind was struggling to catch up. "So Donut’s a drug dealer?"

Grif’s hand came down on the table. "I think you mean a  _tradesperson."_

"But you said he—"

"I know what I said. But that particular aspect is only a small part of his work here. I think you’ll find it’s really not important at all."

"I think you’ll find that I will," Wash began, but Tucker was quick to try and placate him.

"Chill, dudes. Seriously, Wash, Donut’s not really a dealer in that regard. Codeine is about the worst he’ll sell, so relax. Grif, stop being an asshole."

"How come I don’t get my insult spoon fed to me like a baby?" 

Simmons rolled his eyes. "You’d fucking like that."

Grif fluttered his eyelashes at him. "I would. Why don't you—"

Simmons cut him off before he got a chance. "I don't  _care,_ and  _you_ should be eating. Whatever took you so long this morning leaves you with... ten minutes left."

Grif looked appalled. "God _damn it._ I hate you." With that, and one last glare at Wash, he directed his full attention to vacuuming down food.

Wash blinked. "Huh? Why?"

Tucker butted in. "Because _you_ had the nightmare, and _I_ couldn’t wake you up. So I went and got Grif, ‘cos I didn’t want you to land me on my ass, and we seriously needed you to wake up," he supplied, and leaned over to steal Simmons’ drink.

"Hey, asshole, I was drinking that."

"And now I’m drinking it."

"Get your own! Grif, he’s stealing my drink."

Grif wordlessly grabbed Caboose’s and slid it over to Simmons. He met Wash’s gaze over the rim of his own cup and shook his head like _he_ was the fucking epitome of maturity and discipline.

"Anyway, they left you asleep for the headcount, but I figured you’d appreciate some breakfast," Tucker said, when Simmons slid back Caboose's cup and crossed his arms. 

They were interrupted by the ringing of a bell. With a groan, everyone stood, picking up their trays and taking them to the pile at the front.

"Tucker, skip with me," Grif ordered.

Tucker darted a glance at Wash. "I can’t, man, I’ve gotta help Wash."

Wash felt a pang of guilt when Tucker smiled at him, and the smile he offered back was more of a grimace.

Grif shook his head. "No, you don’t, there’s nothing to help him with. He can find his way to the school and back. Anyway, Sarge and I need to talk to you."

"Sarge is wagging? I thought he said he wasn’t gunna skip anymore because he’s getting out soon."

Grif shrugged. His plate was empty and he finally seemed more content. "Yeah, well, it’s an exception, so come on. It’s about this morning."

Finally, Tucker gave in, his curiosity apparently piqued. He shot Wash a questioning glance, but he was quick to avert his gaze, aiming it at the unappealing food on the table as Tucker got to his feet and joined Grif. Together, they walked towards the counter and deposited their trays, but Wash could feel their eyes on him as they made their way towards the exit. Then, Simmons was next to him, Caboose tagging along happily by his side.

"That’s your cue to leave," Simmons informed him, and Wash obligingly stood. "They're gunna tell him about the Donut thing. Don’t worry, he’s on your side. Sarge has his own opinions, and he wants to let them be known."

"Why can’t I go with them? Tell him my side of the story?"

The look Simmons gave him did nothing to soothe his frayed nerves. "Just in case," he said, and if it was meant to be reassuring it was not in the slightest.

"Don’t worry, Washingtub," Caboose patted him on the head. Wash stared at him until he carefully retracted his hand. "Me and Simmons will keep you entertained!"

"Simmons and I," Simmons corrected. "You know, Caboose, I _have_ been meaning to teach you the fundamentals of grammar…"

Wash tuned him out, succumbing to the worry that was gnawing relentlessly away at him. He glanced back over his shoulder, just in time to see Tucker look his way, and their eyes met for a split second before he was led out of sight.

Wash had gone for so long, for so many years, barely caring about anything besides surviving another godforsaken day. But Tucker—

Somehow, for some reason, he cared what Tucker thought.

* * *

During lunch, Grif came in and swapped with Simmons.

It happened only after about ten minutes of not so hushed arguing, of Grif leaning back in his chair and gesturing vaguely while Simmons whispered rapidly to him and accidentally spat an impressive amount. Wash watched from where he sat with Caboose, a few tables across. No sign of Tucker or Sarge, and he assumed Donut was still in the infirmary bay. He’d heard no word, and been offered no information, so he was still left in the dark with an anxiety level that would probably kill him before he was twenty, if nothing else did first.

He was zoned out, listening half heartedly to a story about Caboose's old dog, Freckles. It was a story he'd already heard twice in the short time he'd been here, so he wasn't focusing all his attention towards it, but he focused enough that when Grif sank into the seat across from him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Yo," was the greeting he received. "My name is Dexter Grif and I’ll be your guide for the day, if you have any questions please direct them to me and they will be answered as promptly and succinctly as possible."

It took Wash a few moments longer than it should have to formulate a response. "Well done, those were some big words."

"Thank you."

"How about you tell me what’s going on?"

Grif shook his head. "Sorry, these lips are sealed."

Wash resisted the urge to grit his teeth. "Seriously. I would _really_ like to know what the hell is happening."

Looking entirely uncaring, Grif leaned back and made a show of admiring his nails. "That _is_ unfortunate," he agreed.

Wash gripped the table. "Grif."

There was a moment of silence while Grif eyed Wash's whitening knuckles warily. "Caboose, would you like to go sit with Doc?" he finally asked. "He told me he wanted to hang out with you and talk about... dinosaurs, or something."

Caboose perked up immediately from where he’d been zoned out next to them. "Yes!" 

With a display of energy Washington couldn't begin to fathom, Caboose bounced away, careening to a stop in front of a table of boys and singling out one in particular. "Doc! Did you miss me?"

"Sure did!" A voice rung out, but Wash didn't have time to identify the owner before his eyes were drawn to Grif as he winced. 

"Man, that almost makes me feel kinda bad," he mused, thoughtfully. "With us I guess we’re used to it, or maybe he’s used to us because he’s like, quieter. Or maybe I just don't pay attention. That's probably it." After a few more seconds of watching Caboose make himself at home amongst the other table of boys, he shrugged and got to his feet. "Whatever, he’s got Andersmith. Not my circus, not my monkeys. Let’s go."

"But lunch isn’t over yet."

"You're a genius. Come on, we're not going back to class."

"Then where are we going?" He pulled his arm away when Grif went to grab it.

"Don’t be such a drama queen. Just to some old rooms that aren’t in use."

"Why?"

"Oh, my god." Grif stopped walking and turned to glare at him. "You’re worse than Caboose. If you stop asking questions and save them for when we get there, I’ll happily answer anything you can possibly conceive of to worry about."

They continued walking in silence, and after about three minutes of twists and turns Wash found them stopping in front of an empty cell. The entire row was deserted, apparently had been for some time, and it was clear that Grif had taken advantage of that. He pulled out a small key and set about unlocking it.

"How did you get a hold of that?"

Grif just shot him a look. "Don’t ask," he suggested, and with a click they stepped inside. "Mi casa es tu casa."

"You know Spanish?" Wash asked distractedly, peering around.

It looked just like every other room. Three solid plaster walls and a front made out of cell bars. He watched as Grif lifted the mattress to reveal a small slit in its side, and he rummaged around in there for a moment before extracting something.

"Used to know a guy. You want anything?" he offered. When Wash just raised an eyebrow he sighed. "I’ll take that as a no."

He pulled a lighter out and lit up the cigarette between his fingers. There was a moment of silence that Wash found he didn’t really mind. He could see how Grif could spend his day here. It was quiet, and there was privacy, so unlike the almost suffocating atmosphere elsewhere.

"What if a guard comes along?" he asked, and Grif mistook his curiosity for worry and sighed.

"The beauty of this place is _nobody_ comes here. Last kid in this room hung himself."

He paused to let that sink in before he burst out laughing. "Nah, just fucking with you. You can’t hang yourselves in these rooms, there’s nowhere to do it. Trust me, Simmons used to try all the time. It’s just that this is the last row of cells in D block, and they’re never used. Never have enough people, so they’re meant to be locked all the time. _And_ it’s out of the way of everything — guard patrols, supervisor areas, general walking paths. It’s beautiful."

Wash was about ten seconds behind, still processing Grif's careless admission of something that he was sure Simmons would have rather kept private. 

"What?" Grif asked, when Wash stared wordlessly at him. 

"I... nothing."  _Bigger problems,_ he reminded himself. "Nothing."

Grif shrugged, took it in stride. "Whatever."

In the silence that followed, Wash allowed his gaze to wander over to the smoke rising from the cigarette, and he recalled the few times he’d been able to barter for them in the cells. He wasn’t bothered much either way, but... 

"Do you mind?" he asked, and gestured towards the cigarette. Grif tilted his head at him, evaluating, before he passed it over. 

"You smoke?"

Wash thought about it. "Occasionally. Whenever I could afford to trade for them, or if I could get my hands on some. I wasn’t desperate, or anything."

It didn't look like Grif really cared either way, so Wash let them lapse into silence for a few more moments. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it did serve to remind him why they were there. Before he could ask, Grif spoke.

"So, I guess I’m stuck with the job of explaining this to you." He passed over the rest of the cigarette to Wash and dug around in the mattress, pulling out another smoke, this one home rolled. "Here, have the rest. I’ve got more where that came from, and cigarettes aren’t really doing the job for me right now. Anyway, so, let's get to it. What do you want? Backstory? Reasoning for why we’re here instead of at school, where you’re meant to be?"

"Both."

"Okay. Basically, it was just so we could explain to him and not have him overreact. Let the full story out with no interruptions, all that shit."

"Oh. Why would he overreact?"

"Like I said, he’s protective."

"So everybody keeps saying, but I’d love an explanation why."

"There’s not all that much to explain, if you want to hear the short version."

"Whenever you're ready," Wash said flatly, but his eyes bore impatient holes into the side of Grif's face.

Grif scratched at his chin slowly, rubbing at the beard there, and evidently took Wash's words to heart, because nearly a minute had gone by before he offered a response. "We’re all kind of… hmm. How do I say — we all watch out for Donut. He’s the youngest out of us, and probably one of the ones that got fucked up most by the hand life dealt us."

"I... thought you said he could take care of himself."

"And he can." Grif blew out a long stream of smoke. "Most of the time. I dunno, Donut’s a good kid, a really good kid. You can probably see that. Or, y'know, maybe not." He side eyed Wash warily. "Point is, he gets in with the wrong crowds, and despite that he’s managed to stay clear of most bad shit, he’s still a bit fucked up. We don’t have to take care of him, but we do anyway."

He looked a little embarrassed, and Wash looked away, waited until he picked the thread up again a moment later.

"Yeah, well. As much as we’re all assholes to each other, we watch each other's backs."

He looked more relaxed now, sinking more into the wall he was leaning against. Wash was slightly more mellowed too, the cigarette in his hands acting like a balm for his frayed nerves.

"Anyway, short version is, while he sleeps around now of his own accord, before he was in here he had it hard. I don't know the full story, but his dad got him into some bad shit when he was young. Invited his friends around, and they basically had free reign. Beat him up, for starters. Did a lot more, too."

Wash tried not to visibly react, but he saw Grif glance over at him when his fingers twitched involuntarily, threatening to knock his cigarette from his grip. Deliberately, he lifted it to his lips and took another pull, and saved himself from answering. 

"Like I said," Grif continued, "I don't know the full story. I just know that he ran away, got a lot of distance between them, but then he was homeless and starving and he had nothing to do and nowhere to go."

Wash could relate.

"So he was on the streets, I guess. I don’t know _how_ he survived… I’m surprised nobody kidnapped him. Murdered him, or something. And then someone, another goddamn asshole, gave him a place to stay. They took him to a brothel, and y'know what? He said it was better than what he'd been facing. He definitely had a roof over his head, and he was even getting a tiny amount of what money he earned, what didn't go to his food or shelter. Believe it or not, I think that's why he likes here, to be honest. He doesn't live with the threat of being out on the streets."

"He likes it here?"

The tone in Wash's voice didn't go amiss on Grif. "I said believe it or not. Look, I already _told_ you. He liked it there, because it was better than everything else he'd experienced. Doesn't mean it was _good,"_  he said, when Wash looked at him, "but there's different levels of hell. Anyway, I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I know that a few years after he got pulled in, the brothel got busted, and the cops that saved him were talking about finding his dad, who'd filed him missing... or putting him in a foster home. And he didn't want that."

"I... see."

Grif shrugged, like it didn't matter either way whether Wash got it or not. "So he did whatever he could to avoid it, and that just happened to be attacking the cops who tried to get him out of there. I mean, he's small as shit and I think he just scratched them a lot, but the intent was there, and the intent was what they nailed him for."

Wash was surprised. "That's..."

"Sounds familiar, huh?"

For a moment, Wash nearly denied it, but he knew they knew, and if he'd doubted it, the look Grif was giving him would have confirmed it. "I expected... something else."

Lazily, Grif lifted one shoulder and dropped it. "Doesn't matter, does it?"

They let that sit in the air between them, heavy and thick. Before the quiet between them could grow into a silence, Grif sighed and gestured towards him for the butt of Wash's smoke. When he handed it over, Grif sighed again, proceeded to pull the waist band of his pants down to expose the top of his thigh and crush the remainder of the smoke out.

On his bare skin.

Wash shot upright. "What are you _doing?_ " he demanded. He'd scrambled to move away but hesitated, torn with indecision.

Grif looked at him. "Putting it out?" he said slowly. "Oh. Hiding the evidence. Crushing it out on the ground leaves a mark, and we can't leave _any_ evidence. We'd be strung up if they found this place."

"Why?" Wash asked, still unnerved, staring at the part of his leg now covered once more by the prison clothes. He hadn't even _flinched._

All he got in return was a shrug, and Grif turned his attention to the mattress as he pulled at the small slit in it, reaching nearly his whole arm in to deposit the butt and proceeding to start digging around inside until he pulled out another home rolled smoke. He drew it out, lit it, and put it up to his mouth within seconds. Wash could see him visibly relax again as he took a long draw, shoulders slump free of the tension that had built in the short time he’d been talking.

"What is that?" Wash asked, desperate to change the subject, but a moment later he regretted that, too.

Grif raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck do you think?" Wash stayed silent, but he couldn’t help the frown that tugged at his lips and Grif didn’t miss it either. "Don’t tell me you’re against it. Is that actually a thing?"

"Not my place," Wash said promptly, his gaze hardening. "Or the time to talk about it."

The reminder seemed to sober Grif up, and he picked the conversation back up, but not where they’d left off. "Fine. Okay, well. Fuck, where were we... Donut's got history, and now you know it. Either way, he survived, so shit, right. Kid's tougher than he looks. I mean, in his time here he's set himself up pretty fucking well. Like I told you earlier, dude, he’s the main trader. If somebody wants something, they go to him, mostly because he offers cheaper than commissary does, as well as... alternative payments, and if you’re looking for something a little more unorthodox then chances are him or Doc are gunna have it."

"Unorthodox?" Wash asked. Grif shook the joint in his hands and gestured towards the mattress. "Oh."

"This kind of stuff you can get from him, but for harder stuff there are other channels."

"I see."

He was instantly more uncomfortable, and Grif picked up on it and said nothing more on the matter, simply letting it fall flat before he started digging around for another joint. "Sorry if this bothers you," he said, looking like he wasn’t sorry at all, "but we’ve gotta go out there and  _meet those dirty blues,_ and I am not looking forward to it."

Despite that they did have more pressing matters, Wash couldn’t help but ask. "Why does he call you blue?"

Grif huffed a laugh. "I’m not a blue, dude. And it’s this old ass thing, back from when we used to have morning shifts for showers. Simmons, Donut, Lopez, Sarge and me were all on red, which was morning, and Tucker, Caboose and Church were all blue, so afternoon guys. But then too many kids killed themselves in the showers early morning, and they didn’t have enough officers willing to get up early and stay stationed to keep an eye on the doors, since they can’t have cameras in the shower rooms and the guards ain’t allowed in the room, so they just cut it off and doubled the load for night."

He narrowed his eyes at Wash thoughtfully. "It doesn’t matter anymore, but I think you would have been a blue."

"Uh, thanks."

Grif waved it away. "Like I said, doesn’t matter. We’ve got about ten minutes before we have to find the other assholes and find out what the verdict is. For the record," he added, pulling himself into a sitting position and meeting Wash’s gaze, "it’s not the end of the world. Tucker’s just protective, but just look at you two. You’ll be fine."

So Wash wrapped those words around him like a protective blanket, adopted it as a mantra to circulate in his head as he walked.

_Just look at you two. You'll be fine. You'll be fine. You'll be fine—_

Until he almost believed it.


	6. restless relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a longer chapter to raise some questions and answer others
> 
> find me at ragamuffiin on tumblr

"Okay," Grif said, as they stopped in front of a door. "Here we are. Dude, do me a favour, do  _not_ mention that we skipped. We came here right after school finished, which is right now, for the record."

Wash could do worse things than agree to that. "Alright."

"Sweet." Grif pushed the door open and herded Wash in, closing the door tight behind them. It was nearly pitch black, and Wash held back by the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust. "Oi. Simmons? Sarge? ... Dickheads?"

Wash peered into the darkness. "Did you get the wrong room?" 

His question was answered when Tucker’s voice rang out from the dark. "No, you got the right one. Glad you could make it here, considering how fucking stoned you are."

Grif coughed awkwardly, and Wash could just make out his shape as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, what are you talking about?"

Simmons made a disgusted noise as Tucker replied. "Idiot. I swear to god, if you used my stash, I’m gunna—"

"I didn’t! Ease up, dude."

"Whatever. I’m going back."

"What?" Grif demanded, moving to stop Tucker in his tracks as he emerged from the darkness towards them. "Why? We just  _got_  here!"

"And that’s why I’m leaving."

Wash felt his stomach drop, but his mouth dried up and his voice died in his throat before he could say a word. He could make out everybody else in the room now, from Sarge leaning against the cabinet up the back with his arms crossed to Simmons perched cross-legged on a desk. Tucker was pushing past Grif to move towards the door, and Wash automatically moved out of his way, a weird ache in his chest when Tucker didn’t even look in his direction.

Tucker hesitated before he pulled the door open. "I’m going to the cell," he said vaguely.

Grif picked up on his meaning, waved him back in. "I've got something for you. Figured you'd want it. Don’t take anything from the mattress, okay? None of them are yours."

"Whatever."

"Hey!" Grif raised his voice, and he reached as if to stop him, but let his hand fall before it made contact with Tucker. "Are you listening?"

Tucker swore at him. " _Yes_ , I’m fucking listening."

"Good. I swear, if I find a single — damn it, Tucker!" Grif watched the door slam shut in his face.

"Hey, it’s alright." Simmons hopped off his desk to put his arms around Grif. "He’s just moody. Honestly, I think he just needs a pick me up more than anything."

"Well so do I!" Grif argued, pulling away. "I came to this fucking meeting for this. And he just leaves." He sighed, pulled up a chair and collapsed into it. "Somebody tell me what’s going on."

"Well, after the initial response, he was okay," Simmons shrugged. He looked hesitantly at Grif, who sighed and beckoned him closer.

"Yeah?" Grif murmured, and he tugged Simmons down onto his lap. "Not sure where you’ve been, Simmons, but that’s not exactly Tucker’s usual 'okay'."

Wash was glad he wasn't the only one that thought so.

"Yeah. Well, he was a bit pissed, and he demanded to know if Donut was alright, but he accepted that he gave a shit warning and mostly got over it. Honestly, the biggest problem he had was that Donut's fingers were broken, which could cause problems, and that he didn’t show up today. But you know how Donut gets when he doesn’t get his way. Ten bucks he's just sulking."

"Tucker knows that?"

"Yeah. He couldn’t get in touch with him, but he asked Bitters from down the hall and found out, honest to God, Donut is  _actually_ stealing codeine, and he's stealing it for Bitters. So for starters, he can’t be too bad off, and on top of that our story adds up."

"Oh, shit. Well, that works. Alrighty then."

Wash brought his existence back to everybody’s attention with an awkward cough. "What, so, everything’s fine?" he asked, and he levelled them with a flat stare to conceal the nervous sickness in his stomach.

Tucker hadn’t even looked at him. It couldn't be fine.

"Yeah," Simmons shrugged. "I told you. He was angry at first, but I did my best to explain it to him, gave him your side of the story. And like I said, he accepted that it was a shitty warning, considering he didn’t take into consideration that Donut might not really  _offer_ , so he accepts your response was warranted, given your history. He’s still a bit pissed, like I said, because Donut didn’t turn up today, but mostly he’s, well,  _fine_."

"Then what was all that?" Wash demanded, gesturing to the door. "Why did he just—"  _walk right past me?_

"Like I said, a little pissed. Mostly he just needed to, uh, clear his head."

"Clear his head? What does that mean?"

"Just leave it," Grif advised, tucking his head into the curve of Simmons’ neck. "That’s my advice. He’ll come to you when he’s ready."

"What do you mean just— wait, hold on," Wash paused, blinking at them, all thoughts of Tucker temporarily fleeing his mind as he finally registered the sight he was looking at. "Are you two…?"

"What? Are we what?"

Wash wordlessly gestured at them, and when they stared blankly back, he coughed. "Together?" It was an awkward question, born of a stuttering mind and a heavy tongue.

Finally, it clicked. Grif shared a look with Simmons before he shrugged. "I don’t know. Probably? Who cares? Nobody around here knows, except us. And  _nobody’s_  going to find out."

"I wouldn't... I mean, I don't care..."

Grif didn’t even dignify that with an answer. He dropped his head back onto Simmons shoulder and groaned when Simmons nudged him.

"We are a thing though, right?" Grif groaned something affirmative sounding, and Simmons turned to Wash. "There you go."

"That’s it?" Wash's voice was high with doubt. " _That’s_  how you sort it out?"

"It’s Grif, what the fuck were you expecting?"

"Yeah," Grif laughed. "Wait until you find out how we started banging."

"Get a room," Sarge finally spoke up from the darker shadows of the back corner, where Wash had totally forgotten he was standing. "That’s disgusting. Nobody wants to know that!"

Wash was kind of inclined to agree.

"Whatever," Simmons rolled his eyes. Grif busied himself with returning the favour from earlier, running a line of kisses up his neck and slinking a hand out of sight.

There was a long moment of awkward silence. "So, um, get out," Simmons finally said.

"What?" 

"You heard the man, get out. We’re gunna bang."

"Now just hold on—" Wash began, confused and annoyed that he was given so little explanation, so little response for all his worry, but Sarge spoke first. 

 _Spoke_  being a relative term. Really, he just proceeded to whip up an incredibly impressive storm of curses that lasted for at least a minute and finished with "I wasted my _goddamn day_  for this!"

The door slammed in its frame on his way out, and Grif filled the sudden silence with an equally passionate string of complaints.

"Honestly, all he does is ever fucking ruin things for other people, or complain about shit, or  _why aren't you dead Grif_ and  _how about you go breathe somewhere else_ and let me tell you, I'm sick and goddamn  _tired_ of hearing about his fucking—"

"Okay!" Wash threw a hand up and miraculously, Grif stopped. "Alright, I’m leaving. But just to be sure, before I do, you’re  _positive_  that everything is okay?"

Simmons and Grif shared a glance. "Yeah, absolutely," Simmons said, "of course!"

"Oh. Okay." Wash backed towards the door. "You don’t mean that, do you?"

"No, we definitely do!"

Wash just stared at them.

"Dude. Get out." Grif moved Simmons off his lap so he could stand.

"Right. It’s just, I don’t feel all that reassured—"

"You’ll be fine. Go have a smoke."

And Grif slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Once again, Wash found himself wandering the halls with no idea where he was or any sense of direction. It wasn’t fun, and he didn’t feel safe — and that wasn’t even  _touching_ the mess of emotions he was left with after receiving no explanation — so after a moment of deliberation he started searching for some signs to point him back the way he’d came. That little room Grif had showed him seemed the perfect place to retreat to.

Between travelling to the empty classroom and the short amount of talking and explanation he’d been subjected to, Wash was relatively sure he had half an hour to waste before he could, at the very least, take out his frustrations during exercise hour. He didn’t want to go to the rec room too soon in case anybody he knew was there, or worse, anybody he didn’t know, but who knew him. His ability to draw trouble seemed to have followed him and settled in.

He rubbed at his temples and tried to knead away the headache that was forming. The emotional rollercoaster he'd suffered through was taking its toll, and he couldn't shake the hollow, sad feeling that had settled like a lump of lead inside him at the way Tucker had moved past him like he wasn't even  _there_. Beyond that, the general stress he'd experienced since arriving, and the constant paranoia and need to watch his back since being jumped on his first day...

It was shitty.

And, even though he wouldn’t admit it, he wanted to make things right with Tucker; he'd been nice to him the whole time, explaining the rules and the not quite so rules, telling him what he needed to know and generally looking out for him. It had only been a few days, but Wash had already decided he wanted to get along with him — more so, they already  _were_ getting along. Tucker had a personality that seemed to draw him in, and he seemed to like Wash enough, despite that they’d both already proved they had their problems.

Plus, in Tucker’s own words, they were stuck together. They shared a room. And while Simmons and Grif had so confidently reassured him that Tucker wasn’t mad, Wash also wasn't an idiot, and he knew it was bad news if they didn't close the rift that threatened to open up between them. 

So his decision was made before he'd even really decided to make it, and he let his plan fall into place. Give Tucker some time, wherever he was, and Wash would sleep through the next few hours in an attempt to ward off his headache before he'd see him at nightfall. It was with that in mind that he heeded Grif's advice and followed the signs back to the cell from which he'd just came. Before, Grif had been at his side, but now Washington walked alone, attention focused inwards, occupied by his thoughts.

He froze when he saw the room wasn't empty.

"Tucker?" he asked, more out of surprise than anything, and the figure, bent over some items on the floor, lifted his head.

"Wash?" Tucker mumbled, peering up at him, but after a moment recognition flashed on his features. He scrambled to his feet, frantically pushing items to the side as he stood. "What are you doing here?"

Wash tried to peek past him. "I just—"

"I thought you were back with Grif and the others." Tucker stood, barred Wash’s entrance. 

"I was, but I left… what are you doing?" 

"Nothing," he replied. "You shouldn’t be here."

"Grif told me to come back here," Wash disagreed. "What are you doing?"

"That  _motherfucker._  Nothing," Tucker insisted, when Wash kept staring at him. "What do you want?"

Wash chewed over his words, debating whether to give in and let go of whatever Tucker was hiding. After he decided he did, he wasn’t sure what he was meant to say.

_I wanted to apologise?_

No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t known Tucker would be here.

_I just wanted a cigarette?_

No, that was wrong too.

"I wanted a hide out," he finally admitted.

Tucker held his gaze for a moment, and Wash tried to read into him, to get any clue what he was thinking, but Tucker dropped his gaze almost immediately and sighed. He put his head in his hands for a long moment, and Wash went to say something, anything — he didn't know what, but something to make him not look so frustrated.

Tucker spoke first. "Wait at the end of the rows. I’ll be out in a second."

The way he said it didn’t leave any room for argument. Wash just chewed his lip before obeying, backing out and moving back down the hall. True to his word, Tucker joined him a moment later, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t even meet his gaze, just led Wash back the way he’d came with a strange look of annoyance on his face.

After a long moment of deliberation, subdued by the icy silence, Wash spoke up. "Where are we going?" 

Tucker must have expected it, because he met Wash’s eyes for the briefest second before he pointed in the direction they were walking. Wash reddened with annoyance but pushed it down.

"Right," he muttered dryly. "Good. I'm glad this is simple."

Tucker gave in first. "You wanted a hide out? I’ll give you a hide out."

With that, he strode down the long hallway to the showering room and pushed through the doors. Several boys were already there, smoking and lounging around on the empty changing benches. When Tucker burst through they’d moved to hide the paraphernalia surrounding them, but as soon as they recognised him they relaxed.

"Tucker," one of them greeted. "Grif not with you?"

"No," Tucker said shortly. "I need this room. Get out."

Wash expected them to laugh at him, or to sneer and get up for a fight. Instead the first two aggressively crushed out their smokes and glared as they forced the remaining butts down the drain. The third boy eyed Wash for a moment before turning his gaze to Tucker.

"You expecting someone? Because if it’s just the regular, I can pass along—"

" _Out_ ," Tucker repeated. He waited till they all left and turned to the fourth boy, who was leaning casually against the wall beside the benches. "Are you fucking deaf now, Bitters?"

"Nah. Just wondering where Donut’s at, is all. Figured he’d be paying me a visit soon." His brown eyes flicked lazily between Wash and Tucker.

"I’m sure he will," Tucker replied candidly.

Evidently displeased with this response, Bitters straightened. "You’re sure he will," he repeated. "It’s just, I could  _swear_ —"

"Donut has your fucking codeine, Bitters. You’ll get it when you get it."

Bitters flashed a grin and rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. Alright, I’ll let you two… get down to business."

"It’s not like that!" Tucker called after him, but Bitters was already gone. "Asshole." He gestured for Wash to take a seat and did the same himself, lowering himself onto the hard wooden bench with a groan before he threw the cigarette packet from earlier at Wash. When he just stared at it, Tucker raised an eyebrow questioningly. "What, that wasn’t you?"

"Huh?" Wash asked, looking between the packet and Tucker.

"That stole my smokes." When Wash’s head shot up, mouth already opening to defend himself, Tucker laughed. "I’m kidding, dude. But I’m guessing you’re the one that had ‘em."

Wash frowned. "Grif said they were his."

"Rule number one," Tucker snorted. "Never listen to Grif. Those were mine, but he takes all my stuff, anyway."

"All your stuff?"

Tucker made a questioning noise, but before Wash could ask again he interrupted. "So, I guess you’re wondering why I brought you here."

"I— yes," Wash agreed, wondering if this would finally offer any answers. 

Tucker nodded. "Because," he started dramatically, gesturing to the empty shower room around him. "This is a place of beauty."

Wash blinked at him. When Tucker waited for him to respond, Wash double checked the room to make sure there wasn’t anything he’d missed. "The… showers?"

"What? No! Gross." Tucker shook his head in disgust. "There’s no fucking smoke detectors, you idiot."

"Oh." Wash felt himself redden, and he tensed up in embarrassment. "It’s not my fault you didn’t clarify."

"Whatever," Tucker waved away. "None of the rooms have one, either, but you can’t smoke in there without anybody smelling it. Most of the time nobody else in here will call you out, but if they’re on a good behaviour bond or they don’t like you, then chances are you’re fucked. Some guards don’t like it when you smoke on their watch."

"I see," Wash replied quietly. He decided he wanted to try and get some answers out of Tucker, wanted to try and sort it all out, despite Tucker's obvious avoidance of the subject. "But I mean, I thought you were…"  _Angry at me? Annoyed? Upset? "_ …not exactly happy with me at the moment."

Tucker snorted a laugh. "You word things so fucking delicately."

Aware that Tucker hadn’t answered his not-question, Wash waited, fiddling with the packet of cigarettes in his hands. Eventually he gave in and pulled one out, after a quick glance up to ensure that there weren’t any smoke detectors.

"I saw that," Tucker mumbled, and he fumbled in his own pocket, withdrawing a little plastic bag. Wash eyed it warily, already tense from the notion, but he said nothing as Tucker began to roll together a joint.  "I’m not lying. They can’t have detectors in here ‘cos of all the steam. It’d set ‘em off, and that’s way too much drama and expense they don’t need or want."

Wash watched, sharp eyed, before he finally couldn't resist the urge to speak up. "Maybe you shouldn’t. It’s not good for your reflexes or your state of mind, and…" He stopped when Tucker gave him a tired look. "Forget it."

"Yeah, I will. Anyway, it’s too late. What do you think I was doing back at the cell in D block?"

 _Then what were you trying to hide? Why couldn’t we have stayed there?_ Wash wanted to ask. Instead he just ran a hand through his hair and eyed Tucker. "So, you’re not mad at me?"

A beat passed while he cursed himself internally for the phrasing of the question. He sounded so  _vulnerable._ But Tucker didn't call him out on it. He didn't even question it. Instead he shook his head, met Wash's eye, and said,

"No. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed about what happened. But in this case, I think it’s fair to concede that Donut didn’t leave you much of a choice. Not by the way Simmons described it, at least."

"Okay," Wash said, warily, and Tucker watched him as he struggled with his words. "But what about—"

"About what? That's it."

"That's it?" Wash repeated, his wary tone fading to be replaced by disbelief. "Are you kidding? I— I felt like I was on execution order — everybody was being so secretive, and they kept saying you’d be angry, and—"

"Didn’t you hear me? I am angry. I’m just also not an asshole, I know Donut, and I trust my friends. If they say it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault. I’m over it." He clearly wasn’t over it, but he seemed content to leave it at that.

Wash couldn’t help but ask. "Are you sure?" 

Tucker threw his head back and shook his head at the ceiling in disbelief. "Jesus Christ. You wonder why you’re a magnet for trouble. You’re  _asking_ for it at this point. I’m telling you it’s okay. Accept it."

Finally, Wash felt inclined to believe him. Maybe it was an indication of his personality, the fact that he refused to accept Tucker’s answer until Wash had pushed him to the point where he could feasibly lose all patience over the issue, and he hadn’t. Either way, it was only now that Wash felt any semblance of comfort.

"So, can we relax?" Tucker prompted. "It’s been a shitty day."

"Tell me about it," Wash said, and it was almost an incredulous laugh, but inside his heart was racing with relief.

"Probably worse for you. You seem to take the world so seriously."

He offered no answer, and Tucker didn't push it. Wash tried to take a pointer and leant back against the wall again. He was okay. They were fine, the drama was over, and he could relax. He took a drag of his cigarette and all but melted into the wall.  _Relax._ In theory. Even though they were breaking multiple rules just being here, he hadn’t seen Donut since the incident, Sarge didn’t seem too fond on him, there was some shifty shit going on around here, and he was still in a detention centre with people who were essentially strangers.

Right. Just breathe in, and out.

Eventually, his nervous fidgeting got to Tucker.

"Nobody is going to bust us, Wash. You’ll hear them coming from a mile away."

Wash's response didn't have any real argument to it, more automatic than anything. "If we can hear anyone coming, how come we walked right in on the other kids? The ones that were here before?"

Tucker scoffed. "Uh, they were all fucked on heroin, and other shit like that?"

Wash blinked slowly, before he nodded once, heavily, and said absolutely nothing. Silence fell again, but this time it seemed thicker, more weighted, by exactly  _what_ Wash didn't know. He caught Tucker shooting a glance at him from the corner of his eye, something akin to worryevident in the creases of his face. 

"What?" he finally asked, when he couldn't stand the look Tucker was giving him any longer.

"You keep banging your foot against my leg every time you bounce it," Tucker said slowly. "Kinda hard to ignore."

Wash yanked his foot away from Tucker’s leg as if it had been burned. "Sorry—" he choked out. "I didn’t notice—"

Tucker interrupted him. "It’s okay. I didn’t really mind," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just didn’t want you to be so nervous. For like, the  _shortest_ moment, you were relaxed, and then you just tensed out of nowhere and stayed like that. Kinda made me realise I haven’t seen you properly relaxed before. Makes me feel kinda bad, too. Keep forgetting you’re only new."

Wash didn’t really have a response for that.

"Here," Tucker said, and smiled at him. Wash flicked his gaze down to where Tucker was offering out the joint, and back up to his eyes again.

"Why?" Wash asked, immediately on edge.

Tucker shrugged. "You deserve it. From what Simmons told me, and aside from that, what I’ve fucking  _seen_ , you haven’t had the best few days. You need to relax."

"What do you mean, what Simmons told you?" 

Tucker laughed and dropped his hand. "He said you looked like a lost puppy, ever since it happened. Said you almost had a panic attack when you finally got out of the cells. Not to mention you skipped out on the schooling time to go smoke with Grif, which from by the looks of you, is a large step in the opposite direction that you usually walk, if you know what I mean."

Wash wasn’t laughing.

"You’re the only people that have acknowledged my existence since I’ve arrived here that have not tried to attack me," he reminded quietly. "Actually, the only people in my entire life, that I can remember, that have honestly treated me with any semblance of kindness. When this happened, I was afraid that the only people to be kind to me were going to hate me and turn my entire time here into something miserable."

Tucker was silent.

"So aside from that, and the fact that this is still a new place to me, I’m still lost and confused and trying to find a way to survive in case you still decide not to accept me. Not to mention I’ve never exactly been a… trusting person." He gave a dry laugh. "I was afraid I’d already lost my chance at finding something nice."

Wash stopped talking and decided he needed to learn to shut his mouth. Tucker, on the other hand, had decided that this was the most he’d ever heard Wash speak, and he liked his voice. He just didn’t like what it was saying.

"Maybe having a bit of trust isn’t such a bad thing," he suggested. He gently nudged Wash’s shoulder with his, watching Wash’s face twitch with indecision, his eyes flicking between the floor and Tucker. "Shit happens, dude. Mistakes are made."

Running a hand through his dreads, Tucker just hoped it conveyed what he meant. It wasn’t the best as far as apologies went, but it wasn’t exactly  _just_ an apology. It was more than that. It was an offer. An offer of understanding, acceptance, and forgiveness.

Wash mulled it over for a moment longer, chewing away at his lip. "You’re really willing—"

"Yes!" Tucker laughed. "Would I be sitting next to you in some dirty bathroom, smoking with you, if I wasn’t willing to let slide that you fucked up?"

"I thought you said this was a place of beauty."

"Dude. Focus."

Wash looked down. "Sorry."

"It’s all good. Now, look, I get it. You’re a paranoid ex fighter who’s used to being betrayed on a weekly basis, and I understand that. Not much of a riddle, Wash. Amazingly, I also understand that that comes with some shit, and I’m willing to forgive some of said shit. As long as you don’t ever intentionally hurt any of my friends,  _ever_ , then I forgive you."

"I wouldn’t— I’d never..." Wash sat up straight. "I promise you I won’t ever attack any of your friends. Intentionally. Without provocation."

"Dude."

Wash looked defensive. "I just want to cover all my bases."

He realised how ridiculous the promise sounded, and Tucker did too, because he fought down a smile and offered his hand. "I accept, dude."

"Stop smiling," Wash frowned, indignant, but amusement finally settled in at the strangeness of the situation.

"Sorry," Tucker laughed. "It’s just funny. Okay."

Hesitantly, Washington slid his hand into Tucker’s and gripped tight, and they shook once, twice.

"Alright," Tucker grinned. "Now, want to go back and join the party, or stay here a little longer?"

Wash considered it, watching Tucker while he was distracted, looking around in his pocket for something. When he didn’t find it, Tucker looked back up, but by then Wash was looking away.

"Dude?" Tucker prompted. "Here or there?"

"Here, if you don’t mind," Wash said, quieter than he’d intended.

"I don't mind at all," Tucker agreed easily, and it sounded like he meant it.

* * *

The arrived at dinner a while later and sat in awkward silence, waiting to see if Sarge would speak. Donut wasn't there, and Sarge said nothing, so the tension quickly faded, until the first beginnings of tentative conversation began.

"Where’ve you been?" Grif asked, when he thought it was safe. 

Tucker lifted his shoulders and dropped them. "Around," he offered. When Grif raised an eyebrow at him and sniffed the air around them meaningfully, Tucker sighed. "Whatever. You _know_ what I’ve been up to, why’d you even ask?"

Grif flashed a grin. "Just wanted to see what you’d say. I gotta admit, of all the outcomes of the day, finding you and backstreet boy over here all _buddy buddy_ over a couple of joints wasn’t exactly on the list."

Simmons stared at him. "Grif, you know you're not meant to talk about that since they busted Palomo, everybody’s been—"

"I _know_ what everyone’s been, Simmons. I don’t need you telling me shit I already know. _Especially_ about Palomo."

Tucker tsked. " _Touchy._ What’s up your ass? Not Simmons, apparently."

"Hey!"

"I couldn’t get back to the cell after that whole fuckin’ escapade. So yeah, I’m _touchy_."

"Oh," Tucker replied, apparently hearing whatever was left unsaid, then flashed a grin. "Then I have good news for you." Grif perked up, but Tucker shook his head and darted a glance at Wash. "Get in line with us at showers again," he commanded, his eyebrows raised meaningfully.

After chewing on his words for a minute, obviously torn between pressing the silent conversation or responding to Tucker’s invite, Grif gave in. "Lifesaver," he nodded. "Seriously. I wasn’t afraid to beat up Bitters and steal his—"

"Grif!" Simmons darted a look around. "If you’re going to talk about this shit, do it _quietly."_

"Or," Sarge interjected, evidently displeased with the reaction the silent treatment had gotten him, "don’t do it at all. Shut your fat mouth and let the rest of us eat in peace."

"Aw, c’mon, Sarge," Grif whined. He got a growl in response, but Grif remained undeterred. "You’ll at least be in the shower group, right?"

"Absolutely _not."_

"But you’ve gotta, I want at least eight."

Sarge looked gleeful. "Well _that's too bad."_

"Well Donut said he’d be there," Grif remarked, trying to make it seem offhand but glancing back at Sarge to gauge his reaction.

He stiffened, and Wash did, too. "And _how_ do you know that?"

"I'm a man of many talents — like eavesdropping. Apparently, he feels well enough to come out of the med bay. What a miracle! In fact, he feels just well enough to meet up with us later."

Simmons joined in. "Not that I’m encouraging any of this, but he’s right. They let Donut out. His mouth is fine—"

"Thank god," Grif said sarcastically.

"— but his two fingers are splinted to heal, and they have pain pills they’re giving him regularly. No incident report was filed, because he, um, slipped."

Grif nodded. "Now, showers tonight, or not? Because Donut _will_ be there."

Teeth grit, Sarge relented his glare. "You better not—"

"Relax," Grif waved away. "All I said was he’d be there _._ I’m not making any trades with him tonight."

Sarge _harrumphed_. "You best not be, or I'll be trading both your kidneys, and Simmons will be trading for a new cellmate!"

"Uh, whatever," Grif rolled his eyes, but he shifted away from Sarge. A few moments passed in awkward silence before he started squirming. "Anyway, so, how long until showers, again?"

"Longer than I want you sitting next to me," Sarge growled. "My fingers are getting itchy."

" _Alright_ , alright! Whose idea was it to shove the innocent guy next to the goddamn maniac?" Grif demanded, voice cracking.

Tucker burst out laughing. "Innocent!" he exclaimed. "Good one. Man, that was the best joke I heard all week. Seriously, though, you look like you're about to piss yourself. I'd offer to trade seats, but..."

" _But_ sitting next to a blue is worse than Grif," Sarge took over. He paused. "Maybe. Debatably." He looked at Grif again. "On second thoughts..."

"No," Tucker laughed, putting his hands up, "No way. I'm good with Wash and Caboose."

"I bet you are," Grif muttered. "They're not constantly a threat of trying to sell your body parts."

"Uh, actually Caboose  _did_ try and sell my toes that one time, so. There's that."

Caboose gasped. "I did  _not._ Tucker's lying. I just wanted to exchange them for goods and services."

"So, sell them." Tucker stared at him flatly. "That's exactly what that means."

"No! Please don't be so ignorant, Tucker!"

Sarge cut in. "Ho, division in the ranks? What a beautiful evening!" 

Tucker shook his head. "Wow, never thought I'd say this but Grif was right. We should totally get a head start for showers."

Grif frowned. "I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it."

"True. Alright, we good? Wait, why am I asking, I don't care. _I'm_ ready, and that's the important thing."

"Figures the only time you'd be early for anything is when it's related to this," Simmons sighed.

Wash tilted his head and turned to Tucker questioningly.

"Yeah," Grif agreed loudly, eyeing the frustrated look Tucker shot Simmons. "I _love_ hygiene. What the fuck ever, let's go, _please_."

Caboose cheered as they stood and made their way out.

* * *

Ten minutes later, they weren't standing in the formed line for the showering room, but rather in the small group of kids milling near it. Tucker barely glanced at Wash when he stood a little closer, avoiding the crowd, instead stretching onto tippy toes and searching the faces around them.

Wash couldn't help but ask. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for—"

"There he is!" Grif cheered, and he, Simmons and Sarge broke off to approach a small, blond headed boy in the crowd.

"Is that Donut?" Wash asked. Tucker made an affirmative noise. "Is he… showering with us?" 

"It’s okay, he’s super nice!" Caboose said.

"They’ve met, Caboose.

"Yeah, and I’m not so sure I want to meet him a second time," Wash admitted.

Tucker gave him a look. "He’s part of our group. You crew with us, you crew with him."

With that he walked off, towards the group now hovering off to the side. Wash glanced at Caboose and sighed.

"That was probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard him say," he muttered. "You, uh, want to go join them?"

"Hey! Blues! Stop plotting and get over here!" Sarge called, and appeared oblivious when every head in the room turned to him. Wash cursed him under his breath.

"Are you coming, Washingtub?" 

He hesitated when Donut turned to look at him, but with encouragement from Caboose he stepped into the line with them. Silence descended pretty quickly, and it took Wash a few moments longer than he would have liked to realise it was because Donut was staring at him, and everybody else was watching Donut. Wash grit hit teeth and offered a tight smile at Donut, who was giving him a once over.

"Good to see you again," Donut said, and raised his hand to touch his lip meaningfully.

Wash’s attention was caught by the double splints on his index and middle fingers, and the discolouration and bruising that spread halfway down the back of his hand. The lip he was touching was split, and still slightly swollen, and Washington knew he’d displayed his injuries on purpose. He flushed, but before he could say anything Tucker was interrupting.

" _Don’t,_ Donut," he warned, and Wash actually stiffened at the growl in his voice.

"What? Just saying hi," Donut said flippantly, but he still hadn’t looked away from Wash.

Wash glanced nervously at Tucker, who read the look and took a step forward. "Listen, you—"

"Donut!" a loud voice cheered, startling Wash.

Instead of reflex it was active consciousness that had him raising his fists as he turned, but Tucker was quicker to lay a cold hand lightly on the top of his hands and gently push them down. Surprised, Wash let him, and it sunk in that it was actually a smart move on Tucker's part. The last thing he needed was to be so jumpy when Donut was around.

"Bitters!" Grif intervened, wrapping an arm around Bitters’ shoulder as he approached.

He earned a raised eyebrow in response as Grif raised his own eyebrow at Donut, and between them both they looked like they were born to stand next to each other with their eyebrows raised. After a moment, evidently debating, Bitters chose not to shrug him off.

The heads that had turned towards them at Grif's outburst began turning away, and Simmons hissed at him. 

_"Grif."_

_"Simmons,"_ Grif mimicked.

"Dirtbags," Sarge growled.

Caboose chimed in. "Caboose!" 

Tucker inclined his head towards Wash and spoke in a low murmur. "If Church was here, he’d be bitching _so_ hard."

"Anyway, Donut," Bitters cut in, annoyed. "I’ve been looking everywhere for you."

"What a coincidence," Grif said, smiling widely at him and commandeering the conversation. "We’ve been looking everywhere for you too."

"We have?" Donut asked, finally distracted.

"We sure have, buddy. See, you’ve got Bitters' codeine, and _I_ need someone to take up the eighth stall."

Bitters looked between Grif and Donut. "You’re serious. I have to fucking shower with you to get my fucking— eight doesn’t even cover the entire room!"

"It leaves four corner stalls, which we’re gunna make sure are totally out of view of _my_ stall. Unless you feel like rounding four people up?"

Wash turned to Tucker. "What’s going on?" he asked, but Tucker ignored him.

"That’s bullshit," Bitters argued.

Grif smiled. "Hey, it’s your codeine."

"I paid for it."

"You’re absolutely right, Bitters! But it’d be a shame if your supply dried up after this."

Bitters narrowed his eyes at him before turning back to Donut. "You wouldn’t."

Donut eyed Grif for a moment before shrugging. "Whatever floats his boat," he said, and looked pointedly past Bitters to where they were at the door. "But you better decide fast, because the last group just went in and we’re next."

"I don’t see what the big deal is," Simmons interjected. "You were going to shower anyway, the only difference is it’s with us. Literally all you have to do is stand in a shower, but with a different group of people."

Bitters pursed his lips before he nodded towards Grif. "You’re right. I just didn’t want to help _him."_

Grif looked unbothered as the guard waved them through. "Whatever gets me results. Here’s to not going that extra mile!" 

Once inside they immediately began to strip. Grif was done first, moving surprisingly fast, and had claimed the middle stall before Wash had got his shoes off.

"Man, I can’t _wait_ to get all hot and steamy!" Donut cheered, and, maneuvering around his injuries, pulled his shirt off enthusiastically and sent it flying their way. To Grif’s delight, it nearly hit Tucker in the face.

"Hey!" Tucker threw it back.

Donut let loose a delighted peal of laughter that echoed through the small room, and Tucker shook his head as he followed him to claim a stall. Wash took the stall next to him, opposite Grif and thankfully far from Donut. As soon as he pulled the door behind him shut the shower started and a relatively warm stream of water hit his face. He sighed and relaxed into it for a few moments before beginning to scrub uselessly at his hair and body. His fingers caught in the knots of his lengthening hair, messy from the amount of times he'd dragged his fingers through it, and he made an unhappy noise.

"You good?" Tucker called to him, voice reaching over the sound of showerheads and splashing water.

"Fine," Wash called back after a moment, mind hovering on the display of concern. "Just... my hair. It's getting long."

His explanation felt embarrassing, and the silence that met his statement only made him flush a deep red. The sound of Tucker’s stall door opening and closing was audible, but Wash didn’t notice over his thoughts until a knock on his stall door almost made him shout. He spun around, hands flashing up in surprise and then down to cover himself a moment later as Tucker's grinning face registered. 

"Tucker?" he managed.

Tucker grin widened at him from over the top of the stall door, which only reached to their chests. "You're preaching to the choir." He gestured to his dreads. "You want some of this?"

He waved two small bottles at him for Wash peered questioningly at.

"Do I need them?" he asked, before remembering he was completely naked. "Get— get away from my door! The guards will get the wrong idea!"

Tucker rolled his eyes and held the two small bottles over the top of the door. "They’re not allowed in the room with us unless there’s trouble; they’re only stationed at the door. Now take it."

Wash did so, waiting to make sure Tucker left before looking down at the two bottles. "What are they for?" he asked, because he could hear Tucker laughing to himself like an asshole.

The laughing stopped. "It’s shampoo and conditioner, dude, it goes in your hair. Shampoo first, then conditioner. Get with it."

He became aware that they were on a very short timer, so when Tucker backed away he began quickly scrubbing the shampoo into his hair, before he picked up the mostly empty conditioner bottle. He paused at the sound of a rattle. After a moment, he turned the bottle the right way up and unscrewed the lid, peeking inside. There was something in there, alright. Eyebrows furrowing, Wash held the bottle at an angle and tapped it. Before he could tip it out, he was interrupted by a loud exclamation.

"Who’s got my conditioner?" 

"That’s you, dude," Tucker said, and a knock on the shared wall between them brought Wash to his senses. "I took those from Simmons, but I guess he must have taken them from Grif."

"Huh? Oh." Wash blinked rapidly, turning to face out. Grif was leaning on the edge of the stall door, his arms resting over the top.

"It must be some sort of miracle, Grif washing his hair," Bitters called.

Wash slowly but surely pushed his stall door open, half focused on how flushed he was and half focused on crossing the gap without embarrassing himself. He approached Grif slowly. "This yours?" he asked, holding out the bottles hesitantly.

Grif snatched them. "Yes, they’re fucking mine. What the fuck were you doing with them?"

"I, uh— Tucker gave them to me." Wash looked at him in confusion. "Is there something wrong?"

Grif blinked at him. "No," he said slowly, as if Wash was an idiot. "Nothing."

Wash straightened, mouth opening and closing. "Okay," he said, wondering what he’d said wrong. 

Grif gave him a once over, and Wash wasn’t sure if he imagined the look of annoyance he gave him. "Fuck _off_ , blue." Grif turned his back, and Wash was left with no other option but to move back to his stall.

Once inside, part of him was relieved to be relatively unexposed, but now he was aware of Grif just opposite him. And even though Wash could only see his shoulders up, he could see that he was facing towards the shower head and looking down, shoulders hunched to hide what he was doing.

What had been in the bottle?

Wash barely even noticed the shower turn off, and it took him a few moments of standing there, dripping, for him to come to his senses. He supposed it must not have been anything bad, because accessories were supposed to be checked by the guards stationed at each door. Putting that thought aside, he pushed his shower stall door open, just in time to nearly run into Bitters, who’d taken the shower stall to the other side of him.

"Jesus," he gasped, nearly slipping over. Bitters stopped in front of his stall, turning his head to give him an agonisingly slow once over before nodding.

"Hm," he said simply before turning to face forward and walking off. "Hey, Tucker, I was wondering what you were doing with a dweeb like that, but now I see why!" he called, and Tucker turned from where he was halfway to the benches to give him a double middle finger salute, leaving himself bare in all his glory.

Wash felt his whole upper body flush red, and was grateful for the poor lighting and steam more than ever.

"Eat a dick, Bitters."

"You know, I just _might_ be tempted—"

Choosing to ignore that, and how goddamn red he was, Wash stepped out of his stall and moved towards the benches. Donut was just ahead of him, chatting animatedly up to Caboose, who was at his side and towering over him. Wash only looked for a second, but that second was just the right moment for Donut to step wrong and slip.

Wash caught him without really thinking about it.

It wasn’t romantic or dramatic, just a simple quick step forward to support Donut’s weight and let him get his legs back under him, but it was enough for wolf whistles to start up. Wash let him go almost immediately, only hesitating to make sure Donut wasn’t going to fall again. He tried to ignore their close proximity, well aware of just how naked everybody in this room was, and how naked he was, and how naked Donut was, and what had happened before, and he’d just caught him and they were both naked and this was possibly the most embarrassing moment, ever. Of all time.

He kept his head down until he reached his bench and quickly grabbed at his clothes, but he was stopped by a small hand resting on his arm, two fingers in individual splints. He tensed, his jaw snapped tightly before he could stop himself, but he managed to prevent any further reactions long enough for the owner of the hand to speak.

"Thanks for catching me, Wash," a quiet voice said.

Wash was aware of Tucker stepping up to them, ready to intervene. Donut lifted his hand, and he was patted twice softly before the hand removed itself entirely. 

"I think we’ll be good friends." Donut smiled, and it wasn’t a suggestive, flirtatious smile, despite that they were both bare and had gotten _way too_ intimate a moment ago. No, this time it was just warm and friendly, accompanied by a towel. "Here! Consider it my apology," Donut said, before meandering off to Sarge and Simmons.

Wash glanced up at Tucker. "Is this…?" he waved the towel around questioningly.

Tucker cheered. "Hey, it’s a good sign. That means he’s legit. A nice, fresh, clean towel to call your own. Nice job catching him there, backstreet boy, you really swept him off his feet."

Wash wasn’t remotely sure why Donut was apologising to him with two fingers in splints and a split lip, but he didn’t know how to ask. "What is he going to use to dry himself off?" he asked instead.

"Oh," Tucker laughed, "he'll borrow somebody else's, don't worry about that."

The moment kept Wash quiet until they were finished dressing, and they were out past the conjoining dressing room and into the hallways. He was still quiet until they reached their cells, where Sarge was led separately off by a guard and the rest of them were left to find their own way back to their rooms, and he remained quiet until Grif and Simmons bid them both goodnight, and Donut and Caboose split off to keep walking to C block. It wasn’t until the door was closed and locked behind them for the night that Tucker mentioned it.

"You good, man?" Tucker asked him quietly.

Wash hesitated. "I'm fine, yes. Just... wary."

"Alrighty," Tucker said amiably, but then he continued, "it's just, that was a good thing, you know that, right? Like, not a bad thing?"

"Right."

Wash was hesitant to get his hopes up yet, but apparently Tucker could see that. How, exactly, Wash didn't know, but that didn't change the fact that the next thing Tucker said was, "It'll be okay. Try relaxing a little. Take it from me, the world isn't _always_ out to get you."

"Right," Wash said again, but this time he met Tucker's gaze and offered him a tight smile.

When the lights flipped off and Wash was cast into darkness, nightmares sunk their claws into him the moment he slipped into sleep. 


	7. like lucid dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavy dialogue chapter  
> find me at ragamuffiin on tumblr

For once, Wash didn't jerk awake from his dreams, his heart pounding in his chest. He just eased his eyes open and lay still, the memory of the nightmare already fading from his mind.

He felt hazy, and he distantly realised he was shaking, sweaty and dry mouthed. He knew it, could  _feel_ it, yet it felt like it was happening to a completely different person. If he had been more aware, he would have noticed the slackness of his limbs. It wasn't unpleasant, more a tingling numbness, but it would have given away the fact that he hadn't woken completely — his mind had gotten caught somewhere, stuck in an odd limbo between dreaming and awake. Through the haze, his drifting attention was pinpointed, immediate and sharp, on the noise that had drawn him from his troubled sleep. 

He could hear someone crying. It took a long moment for any feeling to hit him, and the name he whispered into the darkness came from deep within the subconscious of his mind.

 _"Tucker_."

He rose slowly, and he was sitting upright before the other boy's breathing registered dimly in his brain — slow and steady, deep. Sleeping. It wasn't him. Wash stayed where he was, staring into the darkness, until the soft cries pulled his attention once more. He was disoriented, and it quickly became all he could focus on. The world drowned out around him, what little more there was aside from the darkness ceasing to exist to him.

It called to him, so quiet it should have been inaudible, but to him it was clear as day.

He knew, deep on an instinctual level — the only level he seemed to be operating on — that it was why he had awoken. He wasn't aware of his bare feet hitting the floor. As he slowly stood upright, the cold immediately bordered on almost painful, the cement floor leeching the warmth from his feet. Yet, he felt nothing, and he took several slow steps closer towards the cell door.

He moved as if in a dream, the surreal quality washing over him with every step. The closer he got, the more audible the cries became, though they remained hushed and quiet. It took him an indeterminable amount of time to reach his destination, the seconds or minutes or hours seemingly endless as the distance stretched on. 

Eventually, he reached it, and the cries grew louder still. His hands closed around the cell bars and the cold made him twitch, but he held tightly, gripping so hard his knuckles grew white. For several moments he stayed, listening, the whimpering cries entrancing him. He was so lost in the noise that he didn't notice a hand on his shoulder until the grip tightened with urgency. Disoriented, Wash turned, and only here, from the very edge of the cell door, did the poor, flickering light of the emergency exit signs at the end of the row bring enough light to silhouette Tucker.

"Wash?"

His voice was quiet, soft, and wrapped itself around Wash's name so  _carefully—_

He went to reply, but from further down the row of cells, the crying grew louder, and his attention was returned immediately to searching out the source of the noise. He went to turn back to the rows, to peer down it again and listen once more, but Tucker's hand on his shoulder pulled him back.

"Wash?"

He and Tucker were facing each other. Through the haze he was in, Wash knew that Tucker sounded worried, almost frightened. He tried to tell him, tried to explain, but the words escaped him.

Tucker's whisper was close to his ear, and he shivered.

_"What are you doing, Wash?"_

The grip on his shoulder loosened, and although he did not notice it, Tucker's hand slid down his arm to circle around his wrist. He gave the only answer he could. 

"Someone's crying."

The words seemed to jolt him from the daze he was in, tugging him further into reality. He became aware of the warmth of Tucker's hand around his wrist, and it drew his gaze down to it, but he was still lost in the sound of the whimpering, still held somewhere between the point of awake and dreaming with only one thing to focus on. If he heard Tucker's words, heard him say that there was no one there, then he didn't pay attention. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from where they connected, up to Tucker, the whimpering cries seeming to echo around his head.

"You called my name," Tucker told him, voice soft and worried.

Wash didn't hear that, either.

His gaze drifted slowly out, and the low flicker of the emergency light reflected off his eyes long enough for Tucker to see the dreamy, spaced out quality to them. Heart beating hard in his chest, not just at the words, but at Wash's fingers brushing against his wrist, Tucker led Wash back to bed, pushed him down onto the sheets gently, breathing so quietly he was barely getting enough air but afraid to break Wash from whatever trance he was in.

Wash let him pull the blanket back over him, let Tucker's hands linger for a moment longer than they should have, but when he pulled away, Wash's hand darted out to catch his, holding him there for a long moment. His eyes stared into him as Tucker's heart pounded, but no words were said.

Confused, and more than a little frightened, Tucker pulled away. He climbed back into his bed quickly, stealing glances at the figure in the bunk beneath him, but Wash's eyes were already closed long before Tucker could stop imagining how they'd looked when he was dreaming.

* * *

 

It wasn't Tucker's loud calls, coupled with hanging upside down from his bed, that woke Wash this time. It was something else, something much more instinctual, and much more unnerving.

The feeling of being watched.

When his eyes shot open, he was relieved to find it was just Tucker, sitting cross legged on the desk in front of him. He was facing him, but when Wash suddenly opened his eyes and looked at him directly, Tucker quickly turned away. He glanced back, to see if Wash had noticed, and squirmed when he noticed he had.

"If they'd told me you were inclined to watch people while they slept, I think I might have to start sleeping with a knife," Wash intoned.

Tucker tensed, and for a moment Wash worried the joke had gone too far, but then he relaxed, still watching him carefully, but managed a small smile.

"If you're not sleeping with one already, I'd be surprised."

Wash gave a half laugh and pulled himself upright, kicking the covers off him. "Is something going on?" he asked, and Tucker tensed again.

"What do you mean?"

He gestured to the desk Tucker was sitting on. "First time you've been on the desk and not, oh, rudely waking me up since I've got here?" 

Tucker didn't relax, didn't give him an answer, and Wash frowned, but before he could say anything the other boy was speaking up. "How'd you sleep?"

He didn't look at him, still focused out on the closed cell door. Wash looked at him for a long moment before he shrugged, letting the subject change without argument. "Alright. Had some nightmares, I think."

The fact that he'd admitted that wasn't lost on Tucker, and he gave him a sharp look. "Why do you think that?"

"Tired," Wash said slowly, returning Tucker's look with a confused one of his own.

Despite Tucker's thought process, which went along the lines of sussing out how much of Wash's night he remembered, Wash's choice to bring up the nightmares he was sure he had but couldn't remember was based on a much more simple thing. He was trying to open up. Trying to breach some of the areas they'd previously mutually left unspoken, but he guessed he went too far. Apparently even hearing about his nightmares was more than Tucker wanted. 

He'd just hoped that after _that_ , after the Donut incident, they could have reunited with more strength — gotten rid of the horrible insecurities they both held, but both rarely admitted to. By the look Tucker was giving him, he was clearly wrong.

But then: "Do you remember any of them?"

The question was asked casually, but Tucker still wasn't looking at him, and it only made Wash more uncomfortable, fed the growing regret in his stomach that he'd mentioned anything at all.

"No."

Tucker looked back at him once more, but Wash had made up his mind. "Are you sure—"

"Yes."

There was a long silence between them, possibly the most awkward yet. Then the cell door buzzed and slid open, in tandem with all the other doors in the block, and Wash got off his bed and headed towards it, a mixture of relief and regret playing on his mind. He barely noticed Tucker get off the desk as he walked past, but he stopped when Tucker blocked his way.

"What?" 

Tucker didn't hesitate before raising one hand, slowly, for Wash to watch with caution. Wariness bubbled up inside him, and he was irritable, but there must have been some deep, already set level of trust for the other boy, because when Tucker jabbed him in the ribs, Wash didn't retaliate.

Except for a confused, and though he wouldn't admit it, almost _whiny_ , "What the hell? Why did you do that?"

Tucker shrugged, not even bothering to hide his grin. "I felt like it."

"You _felt like it_ ," Wash repeated, somewhat thrown.

"Are you saying it hurt? I thought you'd have had worse than a few pokes."

"I have, and yet I still don't want you jabbing your fingers into me." Tucker didn't even get a chance to laugh before Wash was glaring at him. " _Tucker_."

" _Wash_ ," he mimicked, glaring right back.

They were at a stand off for a few moments before Tucker wriggled his eyebrows at him, still grinning. "It worked, didn't it?"

"What?"

"You're not thinking about your nightmares now."

Wash stopped, his mouth partly open from where he'd had a comeback on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to raise questions about Tucker's own elusiveness, but he didn't get the chance, because Tucker jumped in.

"Is it just me? Seriously, I’m starving for breakfast."

Allowing the subject change, Wash nodded, trying to catch up from where he was stuck seconds behind. Tucker was right, that much was obvious, but the fact that he'd purposely done it spoke volumes. When Tucker looked at him expectantly, pulling his dreads back away from his face, Wash forced himself to focus. 

"That sounds good," he finally agreed. "I could use an energy boost."

"Same. Let's go."

They began walking, and Tucker filled the silence with an ease he'd lacked earlier. It only served to make Wash more curious, and to illuminate the worry he held, but he didn't voice his concerns yet, deciding to mull over them for a little longer as he listened to Tucker talk.

"And guess what?" Tucker demanded, returning his attention to him in full. Wash hummed in response, but the grin he received was bright. "It’s Matthews’ birthday day after tomorrow."

Unsure, Wash blinked at him. "Oh, good," he tried, and didn't admit that he didn't have the faintest idea who Matthews was.

"That reminds me, when’s your birthday?" Wash's silence suddenly seemed very loud. It was enough to give Tucker pause. "Dude? Your birthday?" 

Shaking his head, Wash pulled a face. "I don’t know?" he finally answered, twisting it into a question.

"Oh, come on. Bullshit."

"Well, I don’t." He hugged his arms across his chest as they continued to walk, but Tucker stopped in his tracks. 

"You—  _what_."

Wash repressed a sigh. "I," he said, slowly and clearly, " _don't know._ In no uncertain terms, Tucker."

"Oh, no, no no. You can’t be serious." 

With nothing more to give, Wash spread his hands in an open gesture that was in a half shrug,  _what can you do?_ He started off again, and Tucker reached out an arm to pull him back that Wash ducked away from.

"Aw, c'mon," Tucker tried, to his departing back. "Okay, I'm sorry, I got excited. But listen, this is important, like grand scale importance, dude, and _—_ hey, where are you going? Come back!" Wash didn't, and Tucker quickly followed after him. "Fine," he said amicably. "Okay. It's no biggie then, that's fine."

Wash didn't believe him either, and he turned out to be right when Tucker burst through the mess hall doors with no small degree of enthusiasm and bounded towards the table.

"Exactly who I wanted to see!" he exclaimed. "Grif! Where’s Donut?"

"Fucked if I know, dude. And if I’m exactly who you wanted to see, why are you asking for Donut? As a matter of fact, why does everybody do that? It _always_ happens, someone is _always—"_

"Okay, I don't care. Listen, there's more important things _—_ "

"What are you, Church now?" 

"Uh, excuse me?"

"Just saying. That's something Church would do. Or Sarge," he pointed out, and accidentally spat no small amount of food in Simmons' direction.

Simmons made no comment, just pushed his tray away and turned to the side.

"Oh, Simmons," Grif cooed. "Don't be like that _—_ "

Tucker, thankfully, interrupted. "Guys, _Donut_ _?_  Is he coming to breakfast?" 

Grif eyed him, then Simmons, before he sighed and turned back to him, his hand disappearing under the table to squeeze Simmons. "Well? What is it?"

Tucker leaned in. "Uh, a secret. A  _birthday_ related secret."

"Okay, whose is it? Because I am  _not_ buying Sarge another present when he doesn't even get me anything."

"Uh, not quite that. More like, there's someone who doesn't exactly  _know..."_

In tandem, all eyes turned to Wash.

"Wow," he said, flatly. "Was that your attempt at subtlety, Tucker?"

"Okay, fine, whatever, it's Wash. But you know what I'm thinking, right?" Grif met him with a blank stare, so Tucker turned to Simmons. "Simmons? You get it, right?"

Grif gave him a nudge, because he hadn't looked up. He'd resumed soldiering on determinedly through the gluggy breakfast porridge. Wash felt his stomach rumble at the sight of food. After a few more nudges, Simmons gave in and put his spoon down with a sigh.

" _What?"_ he asked flatly, before he went on regardless. " _Yes,_ I get it. If it involves Donut—"

"Shh!" Tucker shushed him, waving his hands dramatically. "Don’t tell him."

Sarge popped up next to them. "Do I smell something... clandestine? Secrets, hey? Not amongst our ranks, I hope!"

Grif shook his head. "Nope. Just the blues." 

"Huh," Sarge grunted appreciatively. "Good work men, keep it up. Now, Simmons, where's my breakfast?"

"They wouldn't let me pick it up," Simmons admitted, after a long moment of quiet. 

Sarge slammed his hands on the table. "Well then you get in there and take it!" 

Simmons jumped. "I tried, it's not my fault! They thought it was a second for Grif!"

He trembled, and even his voice wavered worryingly, so Sarge removed his hands from the table and turned his gaze to Grif.

"So it's  _your_ fault. You ruin everything! Why, I should have—"

"Guys!" Tucker interrupted, ignoring Sarge when he wheeled to pin his death glare onto him. "We’ve got more important matters to attend to."

Rolling his eyes and remaining totally unperturbed, Grif tipped back the rest of his porridge and stood, beckoning for the still wide-eyed Simmons to do the same as he moved towards the two.

"Why does Sarge only seem cheerful when he’s arguing with Grif?" Wash murmured.

Grif took the chance to shove his grinning face between them. "Dude, you’ve got a _lot_ to learn."

"You say that a lot," Wash pointed out. "Would you ever consider just _telling_ me things you deem important?"

"Of course not," Grif replied, with unncessary enthusiasm. " _Never help a blind man walk_ , they always say."

"Who?" Simmons demanded, finally joining them. " _Who_ says that? That doesn’t make any fucking sense."

"Gandhi," Grif replied. His tone dripped with something Wash could only describe as smugness, but he looked pleased, regarding Simmons with a glint of relief in his eye.

The reason why only became more obvious when Simmons rose to the bait. "Gandhi did _not_ say that," he muttered, tapping annoyed, irregular beats onto his crossed arms with his dominant hand as they stood. "You probably don't even know who Gandhi was."

"You’re right," Grif nodded thoughtfully. "I think it was Buddha."

"Dude, I think it was Masterchief."

Simmons spluttered. " _What?_ That’s not even in the same— I can’t…" He looked at Wash for support.

Suddenly aware of what they were doing, Wash rubbed his chin. "It might have been that other one, you know... the wise one..."

"Dalai Lama?" Tucker offered.

"Uh, sure, him."

Simmons looked appalled. "He would  _never—"_

Grif tipped his head in acknowledgement. "You know, now that I think about it, it was probably him."

Simmons looked completely done with the world, but the usual expression was enough to leave Grif with a smile. Wash didn't ask why. He was perceptive enough to realise that something was bothering Simmons, and they were all making an effort to try and distract him from it.

Sarge broke in. "Weren’t you wastes of space going somewhere?" 

"Oh!" Tucker straightened. "I totally forgot. God, we’re so dumb. Whatever, let’s go find Donut!" He turned to Wash, a glint in his eyes. "You are gunna _love_ me," he promised.

Wash shook his head, but Tucker's enthusiasm was catching. "You still haven’t told me what you’re planning yet," he pointed out. "I’m not sure whether to be excited or worried."

"Be uncaring and apathetic!" Sarge waved them away. "Nobody cares what these losers do. Now scram, blue. My dearly beloved is wholly unfulfilled!"

"Who?" Wash asked, as Tucker led them away. "Also, are we getting breakfast? Because I’m _really_ hungry."

"He's talking about his stomach," Simmons informed him.

"Is that healthy?"

"Is anything about Sarge healthy?" Grif shrugged. "Probably not."

" _I’m_ personally more confused about the fact that it’s not _Grif_ who refers to his stomach as his dearly beloved," Simmons remarked.

Grif wiggled his eyebrows at him. "That's because  _you're_ my dearly beloved."

Simmons flushed a bright red, and Wash felt so much second-hand embarrassment from looking at him that he had to avert his eyes, but he fought down a smile.

Tucker wasn't as amused. "Gross, dudes," he complained. "Save the lovey-dovey shit for alone time.’

Grif side eyed Tucker. "Believe me, we do. It works _wonders_ being just two to a cell. Hey, why don’t you and Wash find out?"

Tucker just shoved him. "Shut _up_ , asshole."

"Just saying," Grif said cheerily, but nobody got a chance to respond when they rounded the corner and walked straight into Caboose.

"Jesus, don’t deck the guy,"’ Simmons commented, and it took Wash several seconds too long to realise he was talking to him. It took him another few seconds after that to step back, a red flush automatically making its way up his neck as he realised he’d jumped to offense.

"Oh, hey guys," Caboose said happily, completely oblivious to Wash's reaction. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for Donut. What are _you_ doing? Breakfast is nearly over."

"Oh. Donut kicked me out," Caboose said, and Wash was almost impressed at how quickly his expression swapped from happy to sad.

"What? Why?" Tucker asked, but Grif groaned.

"Don’t tell me," he started. He shared a look with Simmons, and a second later Tucker groaned too.

"Fuck me. Alright, I’ll go in there and tell him to hurry up." He quickly strode off.

"Where’s he going?" Wash asked. "What’s happening?"

Grif snorted, opening his mouth to say something, but before he could, Simmons rounded on him. "Don’t be an asshole," he chastised, and turned to face Wash. "He’s just gone to make sure Donut doesn’t take all day."

"Take all day doing what?" 

"I bet you’d like to know," Grif laughed, and clapped Wash solidly on the back.

Wash froze. He didn’t really notice Grif and Simmons pause too, inwardly focused on staying still and not physically reacting.He had way too many triggers to function like this, and he knew that, had to actively fight against it. 

Caboose noticed them all watching Wash and quickly straightened, peering at him melodramatically. "Yes, very interesting," he observed. "I see everything that is going on."

His voice brought Wash out of his internal daze.

"Hey, at least you didn’t hit him," Simmons offered, when Wash relaxed his tense posture and moved the tiniest step back, hesitantly. "Score one? Right?"

Grif, however, in a rare moment of understanding, actually stepped into Wash’s view. "Hey, sorry. I forgot for a minute. You blues and your goddamn dramatics."

Wash wanted to ask, _forgot what?_  

But he didn’t need to.

He’d noticed in the short time he'd been here, if not actively acknowledged, that despite all the pushing and shoving and elbowing and general roughhousing that happened within the group, there were people that nobody actively touched. Wash was one of them. Donut and Tucker were the others. For whatever reasons they had, Donut and Tucker had been the category Wash was placed into: the _don’t touch_ category. Sure, Tucker nudged him gently on the occasion, and the whole Donut escapade was a thing, but apart from that…

Of course, he could speak for himself, could understand why _he_ was in it and why they refrained from touching him. Donut too. But Tucker? Wash couldn’t think of a single instance he’d seen anyone even move to touch Tucker, aside from a high five or the hand slapping gesture he had with Grif. Donut seemed okay with touching other people, and Tucker seemed okay to instigate it, but Wash hadn’t seen either of them get roughly or even generally touched without warning or consent. And of course, Wash wasn’t one for touching, so he’d never tried to instigate bodily contact. He wondered what would happen if he did.

"You scarred for life, dude?" Grif teased Tucker as he returned, and Wash blinked once, then again, asserting himself back into reality.

"Nothing worse than I’ve seen."

Wash cleared his throat. "Can someone explain to me what’s going on?"

Tucker shot an amused glance at him, but before he could answer a boy a little younger than him hurried past, eyes fixed on the ground and head hung. Wash’s eyes immediately noticed the way he cringed away from them, but had no choice but to pass them. When he finally passed safely through and hurriedly rounded the corner Grif let out a giggle.

"He was about to piss himself. Did you see his fuckin’ face?"

Even Simmons looked amused. "I thought he was gunna faint."

"C’mon, let’s go. That’s our cue." Tucker beckoned for them all to follow.

When they stopped in front of a cell, the only one that was occupied while everyone else was at breakfast, Wash tried to take note of the room number for future reference. Before he could commit it to memory, or even find the damn thing, he was hurried inside.

"Sup, guys?" Donut asked, draped casually over his bed in only a tight fitting pair of boxers that didn’t look at all like standard uniform undergarments. His hair was mussed and his lips were red, and when he met Wash’s gaze Wash automatically looked away as he realised what exactly Donut had been up to, and why nobody had told him. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Getting some fucking pants on would be a start," Grif muttered. "If the guards come past, you’re fucked. And if Sarge was here, he’d kick your ass so hard—"

"It’s not _my_ ass he’d be kicking," Donut returned smugly. Grif went quiet, and Donut took that as his cue to continue. "So, can I ask what is _so_ important that you ruined my morning time?"

"Can I ask what was so important about that guy that you skipped out on breakfast for him?" Tucker shot in.

Donut chewed his lip and looked Tucker over. "Do you really want to know?"

"Okay, enough," Simmons intervened. "No, we don't want to know. You'll scare Caboose."

They all looked at Caboose, who stared back at them blankly, then gave a small wave. Everyone turned back to Donut.

"Start explaining!" Simmons urged, directing it at Tucker. "Class starts soon, and I don’t want to miss it!"

Tucker mulled over it for a moment before sighing and rolling his eyes, returning to his usual self. "Okay so _basically_ , and are you ready for this?"

Donut nodded enthusiastically. Wash blinked when he realised Tucker was staring at him, and as soon as he met Tucker’s gaze he leaned in close to Donut, still staring at Wash, and whispered something in his ear. Donut visibly gained interest.

"Oh," he hummed, nodding. "Gotcha! Come see me at the end of the day."

" _Yes,_ " Tucker hissed, "You’re the best. Thanks, man."

Donut returned it, practically lighting up the whole room as he bounced up and started rummaging around, and Wash wondered if this was what Donut was always like when he wasn’t so different.

"You’re not coming to class?" Simmons asked, and Donut shook his head. "Well, this will reflect badly on your trial. Really, out of all of us, you’re the one that should be attending most."

"Meh," Donut shrugged, looking ultimately unperturbed. "Whatever happens, happens. I'm surely not one to tempt the fates."

"I’m starting to think you _want_ to stay here," Simmons muttered. An awkward silence fell, and a few moments later Simmons pulled his hand out of Grif’s grip and left the room, nothing but an awkwardly squeaked "Bye guys!" following him as he grabbed hold of Caboose and hauled him after him, presumably to make sure he attended class.

Grif rolled his eyes. "Tucker, you skippin’?"

Tucker chewed on his lip and looked at Wash. After a moment of deliberation over whether he should make his preference known or not, Wash decided to. It looked like it was what Tucker was waiting for.

"Come to class?" 

Tucker sighed in a way that meant he didn’t really mean it and shrugged at Grif. "Sorry, dude."

Grif looked between them. "Man, you’re whipped. You never did this when Church was around."

"Alright, first of all, Church never went either. Secondly, he'd never ask us to hang out with him, he was an asshole. Thirdly, so what? The dude’s still new here, and class is gunna suck for him with only Simmons, Caboose and Sarge. And the last time I left him alone, look what happened."

Everybody looked at Donut, who paid them no heed.

Wash felt guilt rise as Tucker pressed Grif to join them. "Come on, you should come too."

"You’re seriously trying to get _me_ to come to class. I already went once this month."

Tucker shrugged. "Whenever I go and you don’t, they always notice. And I’m sure if it were ever the other way around, they’d notice then too. We always skip together, and we always go together. If we, y’know, ever went."

"But classes are _boring_ ," Grif whined. After a moment he straightened. "Hey, I just remembered, I’ve got a meeting today. What a shame."

Tucker frowned. "Uh, when?"

"Lunch."

"You’re skipping the whole day just to hang out with somebody at lunch?" Wash interrupted, looking at Grif curiously.

He was met with a dry laugh. "What, next are you gunna ask me what I do all day?"

"What _do_ you do all day?"

"Grif, get your ass outta here," Tucker interrupted.

"You _sure_ you don’t want to come?" Grif asked, wiggling his fingers at Tucker.

"Nah." He turned to Wash. "You’re lucky I’m nice," he said, nudging his shoulder gently. After a moment, Wash nudged him back.

"Alright, well..." Grif said, after regarding them for a moment. He flashed them the peace sign. "Later, losers. Remember, use a condom. Who am I talking to? We’ll never know!"

Donut flicked his rolled up shirt at him and Grif hastily beat his retreat. He turned to Wash and Tucker, and Tucker was quick to hurry Wash out the door, Donut's laughter echoing back at them as they made it safely out of the cell.

"So," Tucker started. "You _really_ want to go to class?"

Wash rolled his eyes and focused on where they were walking. "Yes. Believe it or not, learning is important to me."

"But _why?_ Come on, we don't even have to hang out with Grif, we can just skip. Just you and me, kickin' it. It'll be fun."

Wash didn't say anything, but as soon as Tucker had said _just you and me_ , he'd become a lot more open to the idea.

"Way better than lame _school_ ," Tucker insisted. "Why do you even care about it so much?"

"Really?" Wash made a frustrated noise. "I just want to avoid getting in any more trouble than I need to be. Any potential learning is a bonus. Your little _hide outs_ aren't exactly very subtle. I don't feel safe there. Or anywhere, for a matter of fact."

Although he'd muttered the last part under his breath, he knew Tucker had overheard him, because he suddenly fell quiet. Wash glanced over, just in time to see him jut his lower lip out thoughtfully and turn to face him.

"Not to like, bum your mood or anything," Tucker began, "but how old were you when like... all that shit happened? With the—" he stopped to make some fighting moves "—and stuff?"

"Your ability to approach sensitive topics never fails to impress me," Wash said dryly, but Tucker picked up on it, the way he'd immediately closed off.

He realised what he was doing and tried to force himself to stop, but he kept flashing back to earlier — how awkward it had been when he had made the attempt to open up. But Tucker was looking at him now, honest interest in his eyes, and he looked so open that Wash was having trouble justifying avoiding the answer.

He hesitated, and Tucker just kept waiting, the same patient look on his face.

"Well... " he started, and at Tucker's nod he continued, "they take kids as young as eight. But I wasn't one of them, I don't think. I just... I don't know how long I was there." He went quiet, and he knew without looking that Tucker was watching him. "Doesn't really matter though, does it? It was a long time, and I don't remember... well, much of anything from before it. All that matters is then, and now."

"Right," Tucker said, quietly.

It wasn't awkward, but it was a very sudden shift from the easy banter of before, and Wash searched to fill the silence. "I thought you said you weren't going to... how did you so eloquently phrase it... _bum my mood?"_

It had the desired effect, because Tucker snorted. "Shut up. At least I'm not a nerd."

The implication didn't go amiss. "And I am?" 

"Well how else do you learn words like _eloquent_ and... well, regardless isn't big... but you get my point, man, fuck." 

"Believe me, you're wrong."

"Uh, _believe me_ ," Tucker mimicked, "I don't think so. You're like, super nerd."

Wash gave him a look, but when Tucker grinned at him, he shook his head. "If you're so intent on viewing me so highly, then by all means, go right ahead."

"See, only a nerd would see being called a nerd as a compliment _—_ " 

"You got me."

" _—_ like Simmons, but not as bad. Because _seriously,_ that guy is the king of nerds. The nerd king."

"I think you've been spending a little too much time with Grif."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Tucker paused. "And I realise how wrong I was once I said that. Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"I'll consider it," Wash said. He realised they'd stopped walking, and he knew it was because of Tucker's reluctance to go to the school. He let out a weary sigh. "If we skip now, then what do we do later?"

"Huh? Fucked if I know, dude. Rec hour... and then we got exercise hour, and _then_ dinner and showers..." He shrugged.

Wash was aware he hadn't answered his question. "What do you normally do in that time?"

"Ah, nothing much. Bit of this and a bit of that."

The frown Wash gave him was coupled with an expression of disbelief. "What were you doing the other day?"

"Which other day? There's been a lot of _other days_ , dude." He stopped to consider that. "Shit, actually, no there hasn't. You're still new here."

"Holy shit," Wash said mildly. "You still can't remember that."

"Not my fault you act like you've been here forever!"

"Yes. I act like I've been here forever. That's why I constantly ask questions about things I freely admit to know nothing about."

"Oh my _god_ ," Tucker groaned. "We just go for walks, okay? Look, I'll take you on one. Show you a secret spot, an _actually_ secret one. Just you and me, for real. How's that sound?"

"Sounds like something that could potentially get us in trouble," Wash said simply, but he was considering it.

"Awesome. Come on, then," Tucker said, and started walking.

Wash frowned after him. "That wasn't a yes!"

Predictably, Tucker ignored him, just stopped to let him catch up. With an irritable sigh that he didn't really mean, Wash did so; he fell in place beside him and was greeted with a bright smile that lit up Tucker's face. It left a warm feeling washing through him, like golden honey rolling sweetly through his veins.

_Just you and me._


	8. trapped in time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil bit of perspective swapping, just a tinge. meep  
> so this, and the next few chapters are like a nice change in pace. well deserved chill time. character building. uknow, the fun stuff.
> 
> find me at ragamuffiin on tumblr i guess

"When you said you knew a secret place," Wash began hesitantly, voice seeming far too loud for how quietly he was speaking, "you didn't mention how ridiculous it was to get to. Or how ridiculous it is at all. I think it's too much, Tucker."

He spoke the truth. He was already beginning to regret the decision, uncertainty holding him back, and every assessment he made of the situation only made him even more unsure. He'd given in and allowed Tucker to lead him along with only mild complaints, because the amount of excitement the other boy had — whether to skip school, or whether to show him the hide out, Wash didn't know — was impossible to resist. And Tucker had promised it would be fine, so Wash had taken his word on it. 

"I just had the _perfect idea_ ," Tucker had whispered conspiratorially. "It'll be a hideaway like you don't even  _know_. Trust me."

And Wash had. He'd trusted him, followed him towards the school, and before he knew it he'd been abruptly steered left and into a rarely used classroom. As if sensing how unimpressed he was, Tucker had wasted no time in pulling him to the back of the classroom, climbing onto a table and then hopping onto the top of a tall shelving unit. His smaller size had allowed him to manoeuvre around in the tight space between the top of the shelving case and the ceiling, and before Wash could ask what the hell he was doing, he'd pushed one of the tiles in the ceiling up and climbed through.

"It's easy," he'd promised, poking his head back down, all swinging dreadlocks and charming smiles, and the next thing Wash knew he was in the goddamn _ceiling_.

Up ahead of him, on his hands and knees as well, Tucker made a show of turning around to roll his eyes at him. "You'll like it when you're there, I promise." Then he paused, looking uncertain. "I hope. I don't actually promise it, but I hope you do."

"Why?" 

"It's the only secret place I've got left. Be a shame to waste it." He stopped, as if realising what he said, then kept moving. "But there's more to it than that," he called back, voice kept low, but he didn't turn around to face him.

"Right," Wash said, unsure what that meant.

When the ceiling — the ground? — creaked worryingly under him, he shifted to the side.

"Are you sure this is safe?" he started to ask, even though he knew Tucker wouldn't be crawling along here if it wasn't, when his shoulder brushed against a support beam and sent a shower of plaster down on them, filling the air around them with a cloud of unbreathable, dusty air.

"Jesus _shit,_ " Tucker managed, coughing and choking on the mouthful of dust he inhaled. 

"Sorry— not my fault, though. Why did I _ever_ follow you?"

Tucker hushed him, then turned back around and resumed crawling. Moments later, he felt a small chunk of plaster bounce off him. He paused, wondering if he'd imagined it, then looked over his shoulder at Wash, who was staring back at him with a stoic face. 

"Did you just throw something at me? You better not be throwing shit at me," he warned, and turned back.

Wash didn't respond, but moments later, another small piece of plaster hit Tucker in the butt. He wheeled around, but Wash just stared back at him, blonde hair practically white with dust and not a trace of a smile on his face.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tucker demanded, but his voice cracked halfway through and he broke into a reluctant smile.

Wash still didn't say anything, but his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Don't start shit you can't finish," Tucker warned, and turned back for the final time.

"You know, this would be easier if you told me what was going on," Wash grumbled, but he let it be.

Thankfully, Tucker felt no more little chunks bounce off him, because he didn't actually have any idea what he'd do if they did. That was another thing he liked about Wash. He always knew when to stop pushing things. If it was Grif, he'd probably tear off a wooden beam and hit him with it, just to shove it in Tucker's face that he could — potential ceiling collapse be damned.

Not that Grif could ever get up here, but that wasn't the point. It wasn't the reason he'd never brought him up here before, either. He'd never told anyone about this place, not since Church. He'd never really had anyone he'd trusted enough to show. He and Grif were something, that was for sure, and they had a trust that went beyond regular friendship — but this was something Tucker hadn't really thought twice about keeping from him. He ignored the goosebumps that formed on his skin and soldiered onwards, comforted instead of weirded out by the sound of Wash following along behind him.

That was a relief. As with most things in his life, Tucker hadn't thought this plan through very much. It was a spur of the moment idea, born through his desire to avoid going to school _and maybe he wanted to impress_ _Wash_ but really he couldn't even begin to untangle the deeper reasoning behind it if he'd tried.

But for whatever reason, he'd decided upon it, and if he hadn't been so determined to show Wash the secret place he'd promised him, Tucker probably would have backed out. He himself had only been back here a few times, when things got really bad — simply because nobody else knew where it was. He'd lose that now, and he didn't know if Wash understood the importance of that. The decision he reached, that it was probably best to play it down, wasn't a conscious one. It was just his mind, slipping together the pieces and the fear of disappointment and coming to the conclusion that showing that this place held any degree of importance to him wasn't the best idea.

Barely ten seconds later, Wash broke the silence.

"How much longer?"

Tucker rolled his eyes. "A minute of crawling. Maybe more. Then there's a vent." He stopped, suddenly, turned around to face Wash. "Are you okay with really small spaces?" he asked, nervously. It would be an immense waste of time if Wash couldn't deal with it. It was a small vent, and Tucker had his own reservations about it at first.

Wash gestured around to the crawl space they were in. "Does it look like I mind small spaces?"

He did, but he was doing okay so far, and he'd rather not have drawn attention to it if he could avoid it.

"No need to be an asshole, just checking. At one point we have to go through about ten seconds of vent, and it's a fucking tight crawl, dude..." He trailed off, but then he flashed him a grin. "But if you're good with tight spaces, it'll be fine. Now shut up. We're about to be crawling over some important offices, and it'd be a little awkward if they heard us talking."

"Right," Wash nodded. Then, "Wait, what?"

There was a loud shushing noise from Tucker, and Wash finally took the hint, swallowing down his desire to demand more information and trying to have some faith. True to his word, they crawled for another fourty seconds or so before Tucker suddenly turned to face him once more.

"This is it," he whispered, like Wash couldn't tell that already.

The crawlspace came to a sudden end, and there was no way to go except for the small, metal plating with a circular hole cut into it. It was pitch black in there, which made something in Wash's stomach twist sickeningly.

"I don't think—" he started nervously, when Tucker suddenly disappeared into the vent.

" _Tucker!_ " 

He lunged forwards but his hands closed around nothing, and he was left groping at empty air, his own call of Tucker's name echoing back at him from the darkness. He recoiled, fear building, then lunged forward again, Tucker's name leaving his lips in another panicked hiss. A fast building, _desperate_ part of him wanted to retreat, back to the crawlspace, because the darkness there was different to the solid black void that faced him in the vent. 

But Tucker was in there, and the fact that he'd willingly gone in there wasn't even a factor in Wash's mind. In front of him, there was no noise, just an empty silence, and for a split second Wash wondered whether Tucker had really been there at all. Maybe he'd just cracked, gone insane, and he was chasing around hallucinations into dark, endless holes that had no way out and would leave him trapped and alone, lost in the darkness—

He was scrambling into the vent before he realised it.

_Keep yourself together._

Darkness in front of him didn't mean it was consuming him from the inside out, and Tucker was in there.

His hands groped blindly in front of him as he threw himself forward, his harsh breathing echoing loudly back at him by the enclosed metal walls. All warnings Tucker had given him earlier about being quiet flew completely from his mind, and all he could do was move.His searching fingers hit a wall in front of him seconds before his face did, and he nearly thrashed out, convinced he'd taken a wrong turn somehow and hit a dead end. The idea of crawling backwards only fed the fear building inside him, but before he could succumb to it, he realised there was a sharp turn to the right.

He followed it desperately, aching for light, heart trying to burst its way out of his chest. The next long few seconds felt like an eternity, and when he kicked himself forward and found himself tumbling out of the vent and straight into Tucker, he almost didn't believe it. He kept stock still for several more seconds as his eyesight adjusted, pupils already blown with fear, able to make things out now that it wasn't solid black walls pressing in around him. The lighting — or lack of — was more akin to the crawlspace from before: no direct source of light, but not pitch black.

And Tucker, warm and alive against him, helped pull him from the edges of his panic. Then he moved away, a concerned look on his face that didn't add up with the sudden distance between them, and Wash nearly reached out to pull him back.

"Wash? Holy shit, dude—"

Wash stared back at him, barely even registering his words, the dull roar in his ears only just beginning to subside. He put one hand to his chest, felt his heart pounding away; as he began to regain his senses, his hearing was still lost to the sound of his pulse racing in his ears. A small, rational part of his mind told him he needed to calm himself down, so he drew his legs up to his chest and rested his head on them, Tucker forgotten about for the moment now that Wash could physically see he was safe. He focused on drawing in deep breaths, trying to even out his breathing, because he hadn't noticed how rapid it had been in the vents, how shallow, but the squeezing pressure on his chest was so tight it was impossible to ignore.

As he took slow, shaky breaths in, hands clenched together in front of him, he realised the air here was sweeter.

"You alright?" Tucker whispered. Wash looked up at him, looked at how far away he was, and didn't answer.

He barely noticed he was trembling until Tucker moved tentatively closer. He reached out, then yanked his hand back, leaving an awkward silence hanging in the air, punctuated only by Wash's shallow breathing — he was pale and sweaty, pulling in breaths that were far too uneven, and Tucker was overrun by guilt. Yet, for some reason, he hesitated to breach the gap between them, and then Wash was shaking his head and sitting upright and it was too late. Tucker pulled away.

"I'm fine," Wash muttered. "Just... Jesus. I didn't expect it."

"Fine?" Tucker asked, a nervous, incredulous laugh escaping him.

Regret sat heavily in the bottom of his stomach like a block of lead, telling him that bringing Wash here was a mistake. That Tucker's ghosts still haunted here, and maybe neither of them were ready for it — Wash for whatever he was afraid of, Tucker because this meant that his only place left wasn't just his anymore. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Wash wasn't meant to be here. But even though Wash hadn't answered, just looked away and let them lapse into silence, Tucker didn't believe it. Something about Wash being up here felt right. How could he look at him, sitting next to him, arms up and wrapped loosely around his knees, and wish he wasn't there?

He shook his head with conviction. It wasn't a mistake.

They sat in silence for another minute or so, until Wash's breathing had returned to almost normal, and his trembling had subsided. By then, he looked so uncomfortable that Tucker wasn't sure whether to ask him what had happened or not. He looked around, at the tiny space around them, and decided it could wait.

It was, after all, just the two of them up here. They had time. That thought sent a thrill through him, one he couldn't quite place, and he smiled to himself. Wash was watching him again, and when Tucker suddenly smiled, despite how overwhelmed he'd been barely a minute ago, he was reminded of how contagious Tucker's smiles really were. Against all likelihood, he felt a smile tugging at his own lips, and before he knew it he was smiling back at him.

The tension seemed to seep from the air as they stared at each other, and they seemed to realise what they were doing at the same moment. Tucker laughed, looking away, and Wash directed his smile to the ground. He looked back at him when he heard a rustling, and he was surprised to make out Tucker rummaging around in his pocket.

"What are you—" he started to ask, when Tucker's small noise of triumph escaped him as he flicked his lighter on.

Wash flinched back from the small flame, but when he realised what Tucker was doing, he immediately moved closer.

"Woah, dude. You alright?"

Wash was clearly searching for the light.

"Better now," Wash admitted. His eyes flicked up to Tucker's then away, as if he was ashamed of admitting it.

Tucker barely repressed the urge to roll his eyes. "You know, if I hadn't picked up on the fact that you were afraid of the dark by now, I'd probably be more of an idiot than Caboose—"

He cut off, abruptly, eyes widening with the realisation that hit him like a sack of bricks.

"I _am_ more of an idiot than Caboose," he breathed, locking eyes with Wash.

Wash blinked at him.

"I know it's dark as shit up here, but you didn't say anything! Well I mean obviously... you didn't _have_ to, but in the crawlspace, I thought you would have said something then, because it wasdark there and—"

"Tucker — what?" Wash cut him off, frowning.

Tucker's thumb slipped off the lighter and he immediately relit it, watching Wash zone back in on the light source instinctively.

"The darkness," he said. "That's what fucked you up."

In the flickering flame, he saw Wash's eyes dart back to his.

"Yes," he nodded eventually. He went on, when Tucker's face dropped. "But here is fine. The crawlspace is... fine."

"But the vent," Tucker finished for him. Wash nodded again, and Tucker groaned, slapping his free hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry, dude, I'm such an idiot. I didn't even think about it, and I _know_ you don't like the dark."

He groaned again, and it echoed so loudly in the small space Wash flapped a hand worriedly at him.

"'I already said it would have been fine," he assured in a low voice, darting furtive glances around. "And I thought _you_ said it was imperative to be quiet."

"Bit late for that, you scrambling around the vents is louder than anything I could have said," Tucker grumbled, but he took a deep breath and made an effort to keep quiet. 

Wash hesitated, as if deciding whether to be offended over the remark or not, but eventually he followed in Tucker's footsteps and let it go, simply leaning in closer to the flame Tucker was keeping alive and grounding himself with it. In the faint flickering light, he could see Tucker watching him, his brown eyes reflecting the light back at him.

For a brief, brief second, he couldn't look away — the flames made his eyes dance, and Wash was never one for waxing poetic but the word that came to mind was _mesmerising_. Then Tucker arched an eyebrow, clearly about to call him out on it, and Wash was quick to clear his throat and look away.

Tucker was the first to speak. "Here, take the lighter," he said. "Take a look around. Tell me why you think I brought you here."

Wash side eyed him, but did so, accepting the lighter and slowly moving it around the little area. "I can barely see anything."

"Dude, so? At least you can see at all. And it's enough for here, trust me."

He was right. By the flame of the lighter, Washington could faintly see all the corners of the small space. It was about two metres long, and a metre wide, but the roof above them slanted heavily downwards, and only one half of the space was big enough for them to sit comfortably. The vent he'd climbed through led directly to the wider half of the room, because the other half was inaccessible, too small for them to do anything but lie down until the slant widened enough to accommodate a crouching body.

It took him a second to realise he'd been sitting next to the vent he'd come through, right in front of the gaping, yawning chasm of darkness. He recoiled without realising, knocking into Tucker and slipping his thumb off the lighter, throwing them into darkness. Hands closed around his shoulders long enough to reassure him, Tucker's grip firm but not tight.

"Lighter, dude," he reminded, voice low and close to his ear, and Wash immediately clicked it back on.

Tucker released him, and Wash forced himself to take a deep breath. The crawl through the vent had thrown him more than he'd like to admit. He'd like to pretend he wasn't normally this edgy, but when he was in such an enclosed space, with Tucker watching his every move, it was hard to hide it — and even harder to deny it to himself.

"Keep searching," Tucker urged, drawing him from his thoughts.

Wash nodded, steadfastly ignoring the hole of darkness to the side of him, and resumed looking. The only other thing aside from the vent they'd come through was the one opposite it. It was the same size, and identical in all ways except one. Instead of being open, it was covered by a dirty, dust covered filter. He reached towards it, leaning over Tucker, and tugged at it, but it was secured in place. He sat back.

"It's cozy," he said eventually, because Tucker was watching him, waiting for his reaction.

The dreadlocked boy rolled his eyes. "Wow, and I thought you were observant." Before Wash could get defensive, he shushed him, and when he was sure Wash wouldn't say anything, he gestured around. "Keep searching. C'mon."

The floors and wall were the same plaster they'd encountered in the crawlspace, and despite how his first concern was the stability of the flooring under them — _they were in the ceiling, for Christ's sake, how did it come to this?_ — Tucker looked confident enough that for the moment, Wash's worries were assured, despite the fact that Tucker not worrying about things wasn't exactly the most reliable form of judgement. The impatient noise Tucker made spurred him back into searching, but he wasn't sure exactly what he was looking for.

All there was were the vents and the unappealing, plaster walls. He reached up to tap one and yep, dust came raining down. He waited for it to finish before he breathed in next, trying to avoid inhaling more particles than he needed to.

"Did you bring me up here to get asbestos poisoning?" he asked, turning to Tucker.

Then he froze. He took a deep breath. Then another. What he'd thought earlier, when he'd noticed the air was sweeter...

"Is that..." he started tentatively, eyes flashing to the other boy.

Tucker was watching him, excitement on his face as Wash took another deep breath. "Fresh air, baby."

Wash looked stunned. "What..." he started to ask, but he couldn't find a way to word it. Tucker understood him anyway.

"It comes from the vent," he told him, and Wash looked at the filtered vent at Tucker's side. "Remember how I said we were crawling over some important rooms? Well we're over the guard break room. They get fresh air. It's pumped past here. That's why it's so cold, by the way."

Wash hadn't noticed, but he immediately looked over Tucker, and the small goosebumps on his arms became evident.

"I've tried getting it off," Tucker continued. "Not that it would matter, because it's too small for us to get through, but... fresh air." He glanced at Wash. "Good enough for me to come back occasionally, anyway."

"That's why you brought me here?" 

Tucker shrugged, but he was suddenly focusing on the opposite wall intently. "I know you said you practically lived in the cells and shit back in the thing... and it was underground, and gross and stuff, and I don't know if you went above ground much..."

Wash looked at him. "No, we didn't," he confirmed, unsure. "Apart from when we were fighting, we were kept in the cells."

"Did you fight much?"

"Yes. Every other day, unless we were injured." He wasn't sure where Tucker was going with this.

"Right," Tucker hurried on, looking strangely nervous. "No, right. Yeah. But I mean, underground air has gotta be gross, right? Like all old and bad smelling?"

"I suppose it would be, but with the way the cells were set up, we got fresh air."

"Oh," Tucker laughed. He deflated a little. "Well, the thought was still there."

Realisation dawned, and Wash stared at him. Tucker still wasn't looking at Wash, focused instead on the vent now, so he missed how the other boy's eyes lingered on him.

"But even in here," Tucker was saying, "The air we get is like... the same, disgusting, refiltered air. Every day. Not them, though, they get the good stuff. Aircon and everything, while we're stuck with, well, like I said. The same, gross, refiltered air."

"I can tell," Wash said, even though he couldn't, not really. He'd only noticed the difference when he was up here.

"And I just thought, since you'd spent so long stuck in the other thing, only to come straight to here... I thought the fresh air would be nice. I mean, even just here I get sick of it."

"Well, not straight here. There was a period of time..." he drifted off, realising he wasn't sounding very grateful. "But it _is_ nice. It is."

He meant it.The thought behind it— he couldn't put how grateful he was for that into words. _  
_

"It's so much sweeter up here," he said instead. "I feel... more awake."

He'd apparently said the right thing, because Tucker perked up. "Right? It always makes me feel like, twice as alive. I'm pretty sure it's a conspiracy or some shit, dude."

"A conspiracy."

"Yeah! Like, they give us repumped bullshit on purpose, because they know real air has some rejuvenating motherfucking properties." He laughed, tilting his head back and leaning against the wall. "They didn't teach us _that_ in the school here."

"It must be you. You're a pillar of wisdom."

"Hey, I didn't say you could out-nerd me. You were meant to let me have my moment."

"Oh, so being nerdy is apparently a good thing now?"

Wash waited patiently, knowing he'd caught him out. Tucker paused for a moment as if he was going to say something, then slumped, defeated, and frowned up at Wash with a petulant expression.

"You ruin everything," he told him.

Wash made a noise of agreement and handed him the lighter.

"What are you—"

Tucker cut himself off, because it became evident what Wash was doing. He crawled over him to get to the covered vent, and was leaning in close — not just to the vent, but to _Tucker_.

A moment of clarity struck, and Tucker realised he wasn't sure he'd been this close to Wash before. Wash had his knees on one side of Tucker, and the vent was on the other. That meant he was positioned above Tucker's lap, his left shoulder pressing against Tucker's chest and bumping him with every move as he tugged at it and ran his hands over it. Tucker stayed stock still, body refusing to move, even though the first words that had bubbled up in his throat had been a _no homo_ joke — they'd gotten caught somewhere inside him, and he could barely breathe, let alone crack jokes.

Wash was oblivious. The air that came through the vent was weak, but it was fresh, and he stayed, just letting the cool air wash over his face for a few moments. Instinctively, he started running his hands over the filter cover, pressing against the dents where Tucker had clearly tried removing it before. Slowly, Tucker started to relax, adjusting to the lack of space between them and feeling better about the fact that Wash liked it. 

He didn't regret bringing him here. Knew he was right in believing he shouldn't have. It was easy to forget the harder times here, when Wash was practically replacing them.

After a few moments, Wash nodded and backed away, taking back the lighter and sitting back against the wall. Tucker immediately untensed, sinking back into the wall.

"I've never brought anyone up here," he admitted. That got him an odd look, and Wash didn't say anything, so he hurried on, scrambling to cover it. "I mean like, I don't know why I like it. I don't blame you if you don't, I guess it is kind of shitty, but—"

"I like it," Wash interrupted. Tucker broke off to stare at him, so Wash cleared his throat and repeated it, with more force. "I like it. I really do. Despite, uh. Everything."

His words, though untactful, earned a smile. 

"And... I appreciate the thought that went into it. What you said about when I was kept underground — clearly you were trying to be thoughtful, and—"

"Dude, stop," Tucker laughed. "You sound like a robot."

Wash frowned at him. "Tucker. I'm being serious."

"So am I."

"Well, then stop. I'm trying to thank you."

"For what? I showed you a place I know that has some perks, big deal."

Wash only frowned harder, the creases of his forehead deepening. "It is a big deal. You said yourself it was the only hide out you had left. And you clearly put thought into bringing me here."

Tucker made a noise of disagreement. "It was a split second decision."

"Yes, but you wanted me to like it. That means it means something to you, and I can't understand why you're downplaying it."

He had him there. Tucker groaned and slumped against the wall, hoping his melodramatics would distract him. "Fine. You got me. I wanted you to like the stupid fresh air."

It seemed to work, or at least something happened, because the frown disappeared to be replaced with a bewildered expression. "I know that," Wash insisted, "but why is it so hard for you to admit?"

"It's not. I think you're thinking too much into things, dude. Sorry to be the one to tell you, but you do that a lot."

The frown was back, and he ignored Tucker's poor attempt at humour. "Well yes, but—"

"You can't deny it. I swear, you're gunna give yourself a stroke one day, with how much you worry about shit."

He successfully derailed him. Wash's thumb slipped off the lighter, and it took him two tries to light it back up again. Tucker reached over and took it off him, careful to keep the flame steady.

" _No_ , thank you for your concern," he began, once he could see around the small room again, but Tucker cut across him once more.

"Oh, I wasn't concerned. Just stating the obvious." A noise of frustration, and Tucker tried not to laugh. "See what I mean?" he pointed out, his tone smug and rich with restrained laughter.

Wash blew a frustrated breath out of his nose.

"Hey, maybe those breathing strategies will help when you give yourself heart failure."

There was a long moment where Wash reigned himself in. Finally, he just shook his head, staring flatly up at the ceiling. "I can't believe I let you talk me into being in a small room with you. I honestly can't begin to fathom my reasoning behind it. To think it sounded nice."

Tucker paused. "It sounded nice?"

Something in his voice sounded hesitant, and Wash rolled his head to look at him. "At the time," he said, amusement warm in his voice. "I've learned from my mistake."

Tucker laughed flatly, before he hesitated again. "For real though. Your reasoning for skipping was to hang with me because you thought it sounded nice."

"Well, obviously." Wash looked at him oddly. "Why else would I come?"

"I guess," Tucker agreed, but he sounded like he was thinking it over.

"It is nice," Wash repeated, because he wasn't afraid to say it.

But when Tucker just hummed in response, something he didn't do often, Wash just let it be. Contentment flowing through him, he leaned back against the wall and breathed in the fresh air.

"Thank you," he said earnestly. "It was worth it. I'm... glad I skipped with you."

"Yeah, yeah," Tucker finally grumbled, but he looked pleased. They sat in quiet contentment for a few moments before Tucker stretched, graceful and catlike, and slumped back down until he was leaning on Wash's shoulder. "I know what this looks like, and I'm not pulling the move on you," he informed him, voice muffled through the yawn that punctuated his sentence halfway.

"Really," Wash said dryly, even though he had no idea what _the move_ was.

"Honest. I'm way smoother than this. If I was hitting on you, you'd know it."

Wash paused, arching an eyebrow at the ceiling. He could feel Tucker grinning into his shoulder. "I'll take your word on that," he said finally.

Tucker scoffed and sat back upright, and Wash feared he'd said something wrong until he realised that he was looking at him. "I'm gunna fall asleep if I do that," he admitted, and another yawn reinforced his point. 

Wash just shrugged.

"Hey, don't shrug, dude, I'll take you up on that. And I feel like I could sleep for hours. So trust me, it's best to keep me up. Unless you feel like spending the night here."

"I would love nothing more."

Tucker laughed again, flatly. "You're _so_ funny. I think you missed your calling, dude."

"Of course. What was I thinking, spending all these years fighting. Clearly I should have been a comedian instead."

Tucker side eyed him, squinting, and Wash kept a straight face until they both looked away from each other and smiled.

"Don't worry, dude, when you get out, I'll set you up. Get in touch with all my super secret contacts, you know, get you all the right connections."

"Unless you were some sort of crimelord before you were in here," Wash intoned, "I doubt you have any such thing."

"Hey, you never know," Tucker laughed.

Wash paused, and the smile dropped from Tucker's face as he realised he'd left himself wide open.

"Hey, how long do you want to spend up here, anyway?" he asked quickly, speaking over whatever Wash had been about to say. He pretended to stretch with discomfort, blatantly ignoring how comfortable he'd proclaimed himself to be only moments ago. He didn't give Wash a chance to answer, either. "It's getting about time to go. We can come back up here pretty much anytime, as long as you're sneaky about it."

Wash was frowning at him, and Tucker sensed he wasn't going to let him get away with the painfully transparent subject change so quickly, so he let go of the lighter and sent them into darkness. He pretended to fumble with it for a few more moments before he lit it again, and then he was quick to lean towards him, furrowing his eyebrows and putting on a concerned frown that wasn't entirely fake.

"Are you gunna be alright getting through the vent?" he asked, and Wash went paler at the thought. "Hey. You can take the lighter. And I'll be right here, alright?"

Wash looked at the vent, then at Tucker, and nodded. "I'll be fine," he said shortly. "Although I appreciate your attempts at comfort."

Tucker made an _ooh_ noise. "Alright, damn. Let's see what you've got, then."

Determined, Wash accepted the lighter and crouched in front of the vent. The memories from before played at his mind but he steadfastly ignored them, pushing them into a tiny box in the corner of his mind, and got down onto his stomach. The lighter went out and he tensed, his first thought to back out, but he steeled his resolve and flicked it back on. This time, he kept his hand firmly on the button, and held it out in front of him. The light reflected off the metal walls and lit up the way ahead. Tucker made a soft noise of encouragement, and although it wasn't necessary, and Wash would never admit it, it went a small way to soothing the worry in him.

With Tucker at his back, it suddenly didn't seem as daunting anymore.

He started moving forward.


	9. break down the walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer chapter, some shenanigans and bonding and things looming up 
> 
> find me at ragamuffiin on tumblr

Slowly but surely, Washington lowered himself onto the shelf, pushing himself along it as he properly exited the hole where the ceiling tile had been. To properly keep himself balanced, and not knock over the shelf that he balanced himself precariously, a fair amount of upper body strength was required. He found himself looking over Tucker when he slid down with ease, wondering whether it was by practice that he was able to do it so smoothly, or whether his wiry build hid more muscles than Wash had first assumed.

"Come on," Tucker urged him, when they were both safely on the ground. "We've just gotta get out of this room, and we're in the clear."

"What happens if they catch us coming out?" Wash asked, although he wasn't sure he wanted an answer.

"Leg it," Tucker replied simply.

Wash paused, trying to determine whether he was joking or not. Tucker wasn't looking at him, already moving towards the door. "Are you serious?"

In lieu of a reply, Tucker grinned at him, and in one smooth movement, opened the door and slid out. Wash automatically followed him in step, catching the door and shutting it silently behind them with equal fluidity. He turned around, but apart from them and one other boy who didn't look twice, the corridor was empty.

He breathed out. "Thanks for the warning," he said dryly, when he'd swallowed down the anxious knot in his throat.

"No problem."

They started walking.

"You weren't serious about the running thing, were you?" Wash asked, glancing back at the room they'd just come from. As expected, it looked untouched, and the boy from before was gone.

"Of course not," Tucker replied cheerily. "You're still stuck on that? Hey, how long do you reckon we were up there?"

Wash sighed, but thought about it. The longer he thought, the more he frowned. "I... honestly don't know. How long?"

"Four hours." Wash did a double take, staring at the ceiling above them in shock. Then Tucker burst into muffled snickers, and Wash glared at him. "Just fuckin' with you," he assured.

That reminded Wash of the question that had kept on his mind the whole time, and he glanced away for a moment, before turning back to Tucker.

"I have to ask," he started, cautiously, and when Tucker simply peered curiously at him, he continued. "How did you find that place? You can't exactly stumble on a place like that, Tucker, and it's... it's not that easy to get to. Finding it would be..."

He trailed off, waiting for Tucker to pick up the slack, and he did.

"Honestly? Lopez told me about it. That little Spanish kid could get fucking  _anywhere._ All the vents, all the little secrets in this place, he fucking knew them. Didn't give them away easily, but I had something he wanted, so we came to a nice agreement. There's probably a few more places like that, and I don't doubt there's better ones, but hey. I'll take when I can get."

"So someone else knows about that?" Wash asked, curiously, then corrected himself. "Knew. Lopez is gone?"

"Yup." Tucker nodded. "Gone a while ago, now. Dunno what he's doing now, but y'know. He hated everyone as much as Church did, so if we ever hear anything from him again, I'll be surprised. Anyway, for the most part, I know this juvie inside out, some vents included. Before you can ask, no, none of them go anywhere, there's no secret places that could lead to an escape route, and it's no use getting your hopes up," he rattled off.

"I assumed as much. Should I also assume it's normal for everyone to know the inside of the  _ceilings_ here?"

"No, dude, that's just Lopez, me, and how awesome I am. And Church, I guess. Grif knows like, of it."

"So it really is just yours, then?" Wash watched as Tucker's lips pursed into a soft bow, and he met his gaze willingly.

"Not anymore. It's ours, now."

It resonated softly in the air between them.

* * *

They exited the school with Tucker bouncing in anticipation. "Come  _on_ ," he urged. "Are y'all forgetting we've got somewhere to be?"

Wash tilted his head at him. "Where exactly is that?" 

"Uh, super secret surprise. You'll find out."

That hadn't been anything Wash had expected, but he didn't even get the chance to question him on it, because Tucker was already hurrying on. "Why's everyone so slow today?" 

"I can explain that," Grif grumbled, from where he was huffing along behind them. "School here equals total fucking shit. Total brain blowing shit. And _w_ hen our brains die, our bodies die. It's  _science_. Also, slow down," he huffed. "Some of us aren't as athletically inclined as others."

Tucker eased up their pace while Simmons scoffed.

" _Not as athletically inclined,"_  he mimicked. "So full of shit. Also, you were there for like _an hour._ "

Grif let that slide. "I like food, Simmons, I like you, but I _don't_ like exercise, and I _don't_ like school. It makes my brain hurt. Explain that with your fuckin' science."

"Alright," Simmons began, ignoring Grif's loud groan. "Basically, when you hear something interesting, the brain gets stimulated, and certain neurons light up. When they do, they send transmitters to your pleasure receivers, which in turn affects your dopamine gland—"

 _"What the fuck is he saying?"_ Tucker demanded. "You're not even speaking  _English!_ "

"God,  _wow_ , I didn’t think I could want to die any more than I did back in that classroom but  _please,_  Simmons, stop," Grif begged. "It’s like a whole other form of torture, listening to you speak."

"Fuck you, fatass! It’s called intelligence!"

"If I had any semblance of education, I could probably tell you how wrong whatever you said was," Tucker argued. "I don’t know how it is, but it is. I know it. I feel it in my bones."

"Fuck you guys." 

"Whatever. Just because you can’t accept that what you like is super fucking nerdy."

"Uncultured fuck."

"What was that, Simmons? I didn’t quite catch it."

"I  _said—"_

Tucker intercepted before Simmons could finish. "Oh, my god, do you two ever stop bitching?" He turned to Wash. "See what I have to put up with? They're worse than you."

"I... really, Tucker." Wash wondered if Tucker ever thought about the things he said before he said them, or if he realised who he was saying it to, before he reached the conclusion that it was  _Tucker,_ so no. There was no way he thought about things before he said them.

Tucker was squinting at him. "You know, ever since you started opening up you’ve been getting more and more sarcastic."

Wash lifted a shoulder indifferently. "Who knew that beneath this hard, calloused shell, there was another hard, calloused shell."

"Christ, dude. You’re a fucking onion."

Grif perked up and stopped arguing with Simmons. "What are we talking about? I heard onions."

"None of your business," Tucker shot back. "Fuck outta my space, dude."

Grif huffed but backed off. "Well don’t go saying stuff about food, you’ll get a guy’s hopes up. Not like I'd care about anything else you fucking losers could talk about."

Wash looked affronted, but Tucker just threw his hands up, looking like he regretted slowing down for him. "We weren’t even talking about food!" 

"Actually, we were," Wash disagreed. "About... cake.'"

"Uh,  _dude?"_

"When was the last time you had cake, Grif?"

"Oh, man." Grif’s eyes started to drift shut, and with a disgusted look Simmons grabbed hold of his arm to guide him in the right path. "Cake," he breathed. "Been ages. Used to steal some from the lady downstairs."

"Uh, alright," Wash continued, ignoring that little slice of Grif's childhood, "Well just imagine a nice, big piece of cake. Actually, hundreds of pieces of cake, all laid out in a row, waiting to be eaten."

"Okay, dude, you're weirding  _me_ out," Tucker broke in. "And just look at Simmons."

Wash ignored him. Grif looked dreamy, lost in whatever fantasy his mind was conjuring up. "Can you practically taste it?" he asked, and Grif nodded. "Good. Because you'll never, ever, get to eat those pieces of cake."

Grif’s eyes shot open and he stared at Wash. There was a beat of silence, and then Grif wailed. " _What. The. Fuck._ You're an asshole, Wash! Has anyone ever told you that? An asshole. I hope someone peers into the windows of your soul one day and leans in real close and just tells you, straight up, you're a  _fucking_ asshole."

Wash shrugged again. He was developing a habit of that, and the reason why was staring right at him. "I feel that was fairly deserved."

" _No._ That was too far, man."

"Dude, that... was awesome," Tucker said slowly. "I can't believe you just did that, and it was awesome. Man, revenge is sweet," he agreed, before he turned to Grif and laughed. "Kinda like that cake, hey Grif?"

Simmons promptly joined in. Grif stopped his whining and switched to glaring petulantly, arms crossed in front of his chest.

"No,  _fuck you_ , dude. I was all caught up in the moment— that’s like pulling out at the last minute and not even beating off. It’s like blue balls. You gave me blue balls, dude. I don’t even care how that sounds."

Simmons nearly choked on his spit, and it took him a few extra moments to regain himself. "Only you would compare fucking  _food_ daydreams to getting horny."

"Fucking  _Christ_ ," Tucker snorted, wiping at his eyes furiously. "I cannot believe you just did that, Wash. You better be careful, you might end up getting shanked."

Sarge chose that moment to announce his arrival. "And  _what_ is going on here? Grif looks annoyed, so whatever it is I’m bound to like it." He already sounded pleased.

Wash jumped. "You have a knack for appearing out of  _nowhere_ ," he hissed, looking to see if anybody else seemed bothered. Nobody did, and Sarge didn’t even hear him.

"It’s nothing," Grif argued. "And this is my normal face. My  _don’t fuck with me_  face."

"You’re so full of shit," Simmons laughed. "He’s upset because he practically popped a boner over some food scenario Wash gave him, and then he totally ruined it and now Grif’s sulking."

"Aww, boo hoo, princess. Need a tissue? You might smudge your makeup." Sarge looked happier than Wash had ever seen him, revelling in Grif's unhappiness.

Grif glared. "Fine," he directed to Simmons, "let’s see how you go with blue balls for a week."

Simmons scoffed. "Whatever. You’re the one that’s always horny, and  _I’m_ the only one that does any work. I swear, if I let you, you’d just lie there the whole time—"

"Oh,  _woah_ , what the fuck, dudes." Tucker looked a little green, all traces of humour gone.

Wash struggled to straighten his face from the disgusted expression it had settled into. "Alright, maybe we— "

"Oh no, you got yourself into this," Grif cut in. "Simmons,  _you_ do all the work because if you didn't, you'd come after like two minutes— "

"That was  _one_ time, and tell me, was it  _before_ or  _after_ you took an hour to finish?"

"Hey, dudes! We don't want to hear this!" Tucker threw his hands up. "God, gross. Fuck. Honestly. I’m not gunna be able to jack off for a week. It’s hard enough already."

"I— wait,  _what_?"

Tucker shook his head. "If Caboose was here, we’d have to cover his ears or some shit. Poor guy would be mentally damaged. I almost feel bad for the dudes in the cells opposite them at night, if they weren’t total assholes."

That brought a question up in Wash’s mind, one he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. Curiosity won over after a moment. "How come they… you know, get away with it?" Tucker looked at him blankly and Wash burned a bright red. "How can they… you know, in here?"

"I think he means do the hanky panky," Sarge interrupted.

Tucker recoiled from him, looking disgusted. "What the fuck, man? Who even talks like that? Just say banging! Also,  _why_  are you listening to our conversation?"

"Better you than them," Sarge said, and they looked over in unison to Grif and Simmons, who were still locked in their argument, getting more and more heated. "But a better point is  _why_ are you talking about this? Is there some sort of fever going around? Because I’ve been feeling a little sick, lately, and—"

"No! Damn, dude! Wash was just asking a question. A weird one, honestly. Hey, why the fuck are we still standing here? Let’s go, for the love of God."

Sarge eyed Grif and Simmons again before shaking his head. "I’m not going to be the one who breaks them up. I’m only just managing to block their incessantvoices out." He sighed wearily, like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders. "I just don’t think I’ll ever truly manage."

Wash looked at Tucker, who was looking at him with eyebrows raised. "Dibs not it," Tucker called, and it took Wash a second to realise the implications of that. 

"Hey, wait—"

"Seconds," Sarge interrupted, and after looking over once more, straightened his back and nodded repeatedly. "I second. I’m not getting near them with a ten foot pole! No sir."

Wash opened his mouth to argue, but took a second look at the set expressions on their faces and didn’t bother. He simply sighed and approached the two warily.

"— with the costume?" Grif was saying. "Because I never brought that up, but now that you brought up the pudding incident—"

"Hey! I wasn’t even  _insulting_ you, but now you brought up the costume thing, how about the time I caught Donut putting makeup on you when you were meant to be at class?"

"Hey, that meant you were skipping, too, so you can’t incriminate me for that."

"For the record, I wasn’t, I was running _errands_ , but that doesn’t change that you were letting Donut put pink lipstick on you—"

"Excuse me," Wash tried, but they didn’t hear him.

"You told me it looked good!  _Actually,_ you said you sort of had a thing for dudes in makeup, so how does that reflect on you?"

"Well what about the time I found that really weird porno magazine of yours?"

"Which one?" Grif crossed his arms smugly. "I’m proud of my varying interests, Simmons, no amount of shaming will bring me down."

"Oh  _really?_ Well what about—"

" _Excuse me_ ," Wash tried a little louder.

"Nope! But what about the time you—"

"Hello?"

"—and the bunny ears—"

"For  _god’s_ sake— _"_

"—sequined bootyshorts!"

_"Hello?!"_

Silence. Wash breathed out.

Then Grif opened his mouth. "Well how about the time—"

" _Everybody be quiet!"_

Grif broke off mid-sentence to stare at him. Simmons blinked three times in rapid succession. Wash’s chest was rising and failing heavier than before, but both of them had at least shut up and now he was just going to walk away. He did so, and returned to Tucker with a shake of the head that depicted just how heavily all that  _painfully_ unwanted information weighed on his mind. He couldn’t get rid of the idea of Grif in bootyshorts, or Simmons in bunny ears, and  _god_  did he wish he hadn’t listened to Tucker and just left them to hash it out.

"No big surprise is worth that amount of mental scarring," he said heavily, and Tucker barked out a laugh.

"What were they talking about?" He took another look at Wash. "Are you okay?"

"Sequined bootyshorts."

Tucker’s jaw wavered, but he caught it immediately. He glanced at Sarge, who put his hands up and took a step back. "Yeah," he drew out, "on second thoughts I don’t want to know. But um, if you want to forget about whatever that was, we can get moving to your surprise, hint  _hint_. Caboose is waiting for us there, and he’ll probably think we abandoned him if we don’t hurry. The fuck.  _Up_."

"What the fuck are we waiting for?" Grif interrupted, reapproaching them. He didn't seem to see the extra step of space Wash put between them. "Let’s go, I’m gunna bust a nut waiting around, and I know for a fact that Donut’s bringing sweets."

Silence.

Grif blinked at them. "What? Have I got something on my face? Tell me, because depending on what it is I can probably eat it. Definitely eat it. Where is it?"

"You haven’t got anything on your face, dumbass," Simmons sighed. "We traumatised them. Come on, let’s go. We can meet you at Donut’s cell if you’re just going to stand around all day."

With that, Simmons caught Grif by the arm and stalked off. He looked confident and had an air of annoyance, but he had a very noticeable pink flush on his face that gave away his embarrassment. Sarge started following after them, with one last clap on Wash’s arm and the first truly sympathetic look he’d ever given him. Wash flinched, but otherwise didn’t react.

"I’m sorry about that, son," Sarge told him grimly, and then he was gone.

Tucker gently patted Wash on the back. When Wash didn’t react except to direct his gaze to him, Tucker relaxed and gripped his shoulder for a second longer before beckoning him forward.

"C’mon, dude. I promise what’s gunna happen next will totally make you forget about everything."

"I sincerely doubt that," Wash said tiredly, but he forcefully removed all images of Grif and Simmons from his mind.

They were quiet for a few moments.

"So, what was that about sequined bootyshorts?"

Sometimes, just sometimes, Wash could swear he missed the arena. 

* * *

"Well," Tucker said, slowly, "what do you think?"

Wash blinked at them, then looked around Donut's cell, then shrugged. "It's nice. I like the little hats."

"They're _party_ hats," Grif told him, "and thank you. Acquired by yours truly."  

Donut entered with a flourish. "So! Let the celebrations begin!" 

Caboose's chant grew in volume. "Oh boy, oh boy."

"That's right! It has been proclaimed that today is Wash's birthday!"

Wash blinked. Then blinked again, but still the only sight that met his eyes were the expectant faces peering back at him.

"Since you don't know your own," Tucker chimed in.

Wash looked stunned, and after a moment, began trying to formulate a response to the turn of events. "Thank you, I mean, really, but I have a decent idea when it is," he said cautiously. "Actually, I think it's sometime in—"

"Congratulations!" Caboose cheered, right into his ear.

Wash promptly shut his mouth in shock. "Uh, thank you, Caboose," he said after a moment, when he could hear out of that ear again. "But—"

"Wait, what's the date?" Tucker interrupted, looking worried.

Everybody looked at each other.

"It's, uh," Sarge started, but trailed off.

"Around about, um..." Grif furrowed his brow.

Simmons frowned. "It's— look, Donut, your trials coming up soon, right? When is it?"

Donut shrugged. "Don't know, they just tell me the day, not the date."

More hesitantly, Simmons turned to Tucker. "Do you maybe know when your next court date is?"

Tucker shook his head. "Anyway," he said, turning back to Wash, whose curiosity was piqued at the mention of Tucker in court. "Let's just change it every year. Regular birthdays are lame."

"You mean... just whenever you feel like proclaiming that it's my birthday, it's my birthday?" Tucker nodded with enthusiasm, and Wash found himself mulling it over. "I don't see why not," he admitted.

"Then it's time for your _presents,_ " Donut enthused, and shoved his hand out in front of him.

He held in his grasp something small. It was cold, had clearly been frozen, but what it actually  _was_ Wash didn’t know. He picked it up gingerly, getting a feel for it, and wasn’t surprised when it was slippery in his hands, beginning to melt. 

"Don’t break it, just eat it!" 

"Eat it?" he repeated, flatly. "You're joking, right?"

It didn't look edible in the slightest. It was a somewhat translucent clear ball, and he had no idea what it was made of. If... well, anything besides water.

"Yeah, c’mon! It’s really nice," Tucker agreed.

"The most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted," Sarge proclaimed, his arms crossed proudly in front of his chest.

"What is it?" Wash asked first, the desire to know what he was eating  _before_  he ingested something potentially dangerous overruling his desire to give in to peer pressure.

"It’s a secret recipe!’ Donut informed him, smiling brightly. "But everyone here lovesit."

Wash hesitated. Tucker pushed gently up on his hands, and if it had of been anybody else, Wash thought he probably would have resisted. As it was he drew it out, trying one last time to get a look at it, before he tipped his head back and all but threw the freezing rock down his throat. He started chewing, and couldn’t help pulling a face when the flavour hit his tongue.

"It’s so sweet," he said tentatively. "What’s in this, again?"

Donut beamed at him. "Sugar and water! Compressed and frozen to make what I like to call Donut Balls."

Wash wished he could somehow un-swallow. 

"They take ages to freeze, but for the right people, it's worth it. So, do you like them?" 

After a moment, Wash looked up at him. Big, hopeful blue eyes looked back, containing so much shining excitementthat Wash had to look away. His gaze landed on Tucker next, who had shifted to his side, and a similar, if not more subdued expression met him there. It made something inside Wash light up a little bit, and he didn't know quite what to do with that, so he flicked his eyes away to Grif and Simmons, who had taken the moment away from the eyes of the rest of the juvie to lean on each other — and Caboose, as usual, looked clueless but enthusiastic. Wash was pretty sure he was just happy to be here. Looking at Sarge, Wash was sure if he said the wrong thing he’d end up short a few teeth.

Somehow, he knew the thought behind it was nice. In the weird, weird way that all of this was  _nice_ , and made him feel... happy.

"They’re good, right?" Tucker nodded at him, grinning, and Wash looked between his and Donut’s smiling faces once more.

All of a sudden, Wash decided it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

"Yeah," he smiled, nodding back, and he opened his mouth to show it was empty. "See? Ahhh."

"Aw, dude. You call me gross."

Wash's smile grew, but any opportunity to call Tucker out on his many questionable habits was interrupted by Donut, who was bouncing up and down on his feet.

"So you liked ‘em?" he demanded, dissatisfied with Wash's simple answer. "Really? ‘Cos, I was afraid you might think they were too sweet… it’s hard to get the balance just right. I haven’t had an opportunity to make these babies since Caboose’s last birthday!"

Wash thought for a moment before nodding again. "No, you got the balance of, uh, sugar and water just right. Definitely. Really, I liked them. I can see why they’re a special treat." He turned, smiled at Tucker.

Grif whispered something to Simmons, who cocked his head at them before leaning down to whisper something back. At the suspicious look Washington gave them, Simmons offered him a weak wave and Grif graced him with a middle finger.

"I don’t suppose you have any more for the rest of us, do you?" Sarge asked, drawing Wash's attention away, and Donut turned to give him a bright smile.

"Of course! Caboose helped smuggle them in. It is  _hard_ work getting everyone to get me the right amount of things. Lucky I’m so well connected!"

"Brag some other time, dude," Grif told him, and broke away from his secret conversation with Simmons to reach for some of the little treats. 

"Yeah, hurry up, I’m starving," Simmons seconded. "And I don’t even care that we’re having dessert before dinner. That’s right, I don’t give a fuck."

Grif shook his head. "Jesus Christ." 

"Just call me Swagalicious Simmons."

"Stop, please, you’re embarrassing me.  _And_ yourself. But more importantly, me."

"No, let the boy have his fun," Sarge interrupted. "I remembered the first day  _I_ ever had dessert before dinner. Coincidentally, it was the same day I beat my step father to death. I ate that lemon cheesecake right in front of his dead body! And let me tell you, it was the best damn cheesecake I’ve ever had."

Wash choked on air, and Tucker multitasked between patting him on the back and reaching over to highfive Sarge.

"Nicely said, dude." Grif raised a non-existent glass. "I’d like to make a toast in honour of eating dessert before dinner, but fortunately for me it’s something I do every day. Perks to being friends with Donut, the prisons trusty materials dealer."

"A toast to me!" Donut cheered.

"And me!"

"And Caboose, of course, who, without his help, I never would have gotten the Donut Balls into my room in as short a time as I did, and everybody knows Donut Balls are best eaten as fresh as possible."

"Oh, gross." Tucker shivered. "Let's not talk about that anymore. I still don't buy the name, by the way."

Caboose spoke over him. "Yay, me!" he cheered, looking between them all excitedly. "I did everything! Caboose is the best!"

"That’s right, buddy," Grif agreed, shaking his head at Simmons. "Three cheers for you."

"I wish Church was here to see this!"

Vague but definitely  _loud_  and enthusiastic cheering began, and in the middle of it Wash saw Tucker turn to him.

"Happy birthday," Tucker told him, grinning, and Wash barely heard him over the cheering.

"Thank you," he returned, sincerely.

He wondered when the last time was that he'd felt so damn  _happy_. A peaceful cloud was settling over him, a blanket of contentment that seemed to increase when Tucker's grin softened into an understanding smile, and Wash wondered whether it was possible that he somehow knew what he was thinking.

It took a moment for them to notice Sarge and Donut starting up a rendition of " _For he’s a jolly good fellow"_ that alternated between gruff monotone and high pitched enthusiasm. Grif joined in, surprisingly enthusiastic, and after some nudges even Simmons dutifully mumbled along a few words, while Caboose chewed furiously at his mouth full of Donut Balls in an attempt to finish them in time to join in. 

He didn't, because the song dissolved into laughter by everyone except Sarge, who carried on stubbornly to the very last note while Caboose decided to make do with a hug instead. He threw his long arms around Wash and Tucker together, and pulled them tightly into his chest.

It quickly grew quiet, and against Wash's arm, he could feel Tucker's unnatural stillness from where he was pressed into Caboose's shirt. It was that, more than anything, that prompted him to take a deep breath in and reach his one free arm around to awkwardly pat Caboose on the back. Immediately he felt Tucker untense, and heard a muffled " _Dude, I can't fucking breathe,"_ that signified the end of the hug. 

"That was fun!" Caboose decided. "Let's do it again sometime." 

"The hug, or the party?" Tucker questioned, straightening himself out and reaching a hand up to rub his nose. "Because the hug was, y'know..."

"Fine," Wash said, because Tucker had trailed off to look at him. "It was fine."

Both Tucker's eyebrows shot up before he quickly shook himself. "Speak for yourself. I like my nose  _intact_ , right where it is, in the middle of my beautiful face."

"Dude," Grif snorted. He allowed Simmons to rest his chin on the top of his head without complaint.

"Aw, aren't you guys cute." Tucker pulled a face, then turned to Wash. "I'm gunna snag me some Donut Balls, then we'd better scatter, because guards might come to check out the noise. Still, I’m glad we organised this. Better leave the hats behind, though."

After a moment, Wash nodded. "Me too," he said, although he still wasn't entirely sure what  _this_ had been. 

Nonetheless, he followed Tucker without complaint out the door and onto the walkway, where they began walking back along the rows of cells until they reached the corridors that signalled the return to the main building. There, Tucker turned to him, and held his hand out to Wash expectantly.

"So how would you rate your birthday experience?" he began.

Wash peered at his hand in confusion. "What is—"

"It's an imaginary microphone, now answer the damn question! Birthday experience, good or bad?" 

The look on Wash's face melted away to the crinkled amusement that had danced in his eyes all night, and he batted Tucker's hand down. "Good," he said, simply, because the words he'd had disappeared when he'd felt the cold of Tucker's skin.

Tucker groaned, and his attention returned to him once more. "Oh, come on. Better than good, right? Out of ten?"

A raised eyebrow. "You want me to scale my—" He cut off at Tucker's expectant look, and after a moment pretended to take the microphone. "I'd give it a ten."

Nodding, Tucker let him off the hook. "You'll pass," he conceded, when they heard a familiar voice echo down the walkway behind them. "Was that—" he began, but quieted immediately when the voice called out again.

" _Wash! Wait, come back!_ "

They shared a look of confusion.

"What does Donut want with you? Did you forget something?" 

Wash shook his head. "I doubt it," he said, but they turned and started back.

Out in the hall, in front of a different cell a few doors down from Donut, Caboose was standing. He gave them a wave as they approached, but offered nothing.

"Uh, dude?" Tucker raised an eyebrow. "Why are you standing in the middle of the hall, holding all the hats? I'm pretty sure you're freaking out the kid in there."

Wash peered around Caboose to the boy inside the cell, who looked back with wide eyed confusion. He couldn't have been older than fourteen, at best, and Wash could understand how disconcerting it would be to suddenly have a tall, well built boy hovering silently outside your cell, arms full of party hats or no.

"Oh, Donut told me to wait outside," Caboose responded. "So I'm waiting outside. It's nice here. Outside."

"Right," Tucker nodded. He turned to the cell, to the kid inside. '"What are you doing?" he demanded, making shooing gestures at him. "Go to class. Skipping is bad. Knowledge is power, and all that shit."

The boy blinked. "Class is over."

"Oh, yeah."

"It's rec time," he continued. Then, somewhat hesitantly: "Were you guys having a party?"

" _No._  Now beat it."

The kid scampered off, and they turned back to Caboose just as Donut poked his head out of his cell to call down the hall once more.

" _Wash—"_  he started, then realised they were just in front of him. "Oh, good! You heard. Wash, come in. Tucker, go away. I want to have a little talk."

Tucker raised an eyebrow, but Wash shook his head. He didn't have any more of an idea what Donut could possibly want to talk to him about than Tucker did.

"Uh, can you be a little less cryptic?" Tucker asked, turning back to Donut. "About what?"

Donut pursed his lips at him. "Things," he said. "And stuff."

" _That's_  convincing. Really, I’m not so sure I want to leave you two alone."

"Aw, don’t worry! He’s all yours."

"Good—" Tucker started to say, but cut himself off. "Wait, what? No! I just—"

"Relax! No need to get your knickers in a knot. I made my peace offering, and I always stand by my word. I’m not one for moving in on other people’s property, either. In fact, I'm offended that you'd even  _imply_  it."

"I’m right here, you know," Wash frowned.

 _"Yeah,_  Tucker. If you ever need him, he’s  _right there—"_

"Fine! Didn't realise it was a crime to be concerned about my  _friends._ I'm outta here. Deal with that mess yourself."

Wash felt his lips pull down into a frown and wondered what he'd done wrong, but didn't get a chance to ask over the loud string of curses in a foreign language that Tucker let loose as he exited down the walkway. 

"Was that Sangheili?" he asked, when Tucker was out of earshot, and obeyed Donut's beckons to come further into his cell.

"Huh?" Donut looked up at him, then after Tucker, who was just out of sight of the cell bars, then back to Wash. "Oh, yeah, of course," he laughed, like it was nothing.

Washington stared at him. "How does  _Tucker_  know Sangheili?"

Donut laughed. "Don’t be silly."

"I’m not—  _how does he_... that’s a very complex language, and—"

"Don't you want to know what I kept you in for?"

"I'd rather know why Tucker—"

"I just wanted to ask that you take care of him," Donut said, barrelling on as if Wash wasn’t stuck a minute behind.

He said it so casually that it took Wash a moment to catch onto the meaning behind the words, to pick up on the emotions hidden in them and jerk himself out of his thought process. He stopped, completely, then cocked his head and regarded Donut uncertainly.

"I… what? Who?" When Donut didn’t respond: "Tucker?"

Donut eyed him. "Tucker," he confirmed. He pretended to busy himself with straightening out Caboose's bed sheets, although the bed had clearly already been made. Probably by Donut himself.

"Where has  _this_  come from?" 

"Just noticed you two are getting along well. Getting close. You made fast friends,  _that's_  for sure."

Wash was still lost. "I— I don’t think I understand," he edged.

The smile Donut gave him was sympathetic and full of disbelief, but when Wash returned his look with nothing but confusion, it faded. It was immediately replaced by a cautious narrowing of his eyes, and Wash tried to push down the way that it made him feel cautious.  _He was regarding him_ , he told himself,  _trying to tell if he was lying, not sizing him up._

Donut's tone was trying too hard for casual to succeed. "Well, I heard you two skipped school together."

Wash considered his options, then nodded, uncertain. "Doesn't everyone? Tucker and Grif never go."

"He seems to go a lot more now that you're around."

"To school?" Donut nodded. "I just... is that a bad thing?"

"No," Donut said simply.

Wash was starting to get frustrated. Donut was keeping him in a state of uncertainty, stubbornly refusing to give anything away or explain what the point of this was — and Wash wanted to know. It involved him, and it involved Tucker, and if it was something important Donut was refusing to tell him then it didn't bode well for anyone.

"Is Tucker alright?" he asked flatly.

It was Donut's turn to look surprised. "As far as I know," he answered. His honesty was apparent, enhanced by the fact that he'd clearly not been expecting the question. "Why?" Before he could answer, Donut's expression lit up with glee. "Oh,  _Wash!_ "

Wash took a step back. "Uh, what?"

"Your first thought is  _concern for Tucker._ " Donut looked beyond excited at the fact, flapping his hand around before putting it to his forehead as if he was going to faint. Wash managed a few confused noises, but apart from that, he was speechless as Donut finally settled on a bright, glowing smile. "You know what, never mind. You can go. There's not much I think I need to say, after all."

"Now, just hold on," Wash began, even more confused than he'd been a minute ago, but Donut talked loudly over him.

"Out you get. I need about a year of recovery after this. I cannot  _believe_  —" He seemed to notice Wash still standing there, and stopped. "What?"

 _"What is going on?"_   Frustration was evident in every pore of his being.

Unsurprisingly, Donut didn't even look twice, simply shook his head, the unshaved part of his hair flopping around as he smiled at him. Without another word, he ushered Wash outside, and the taller boy just let him, too confused to fight against it.

"Tell Caboose he can come back in now," Donut ordered, when he'd successfully gotten Washington outside his cell door and back into the row hallway. "Unless you have anything else you want to add?"

"Well clearly there's no point to it," Wash said sourly, and he was just rewarded with an innocent smile.

"No need to be a negative Nancy," Donut chastised. "Now shoo."

"Where?" Wash asked, before Donut disappeared back into his room. 

Donut just offered him another smile, but this one was genuine, and left Wash more confused as to what he'd said to earn it. "Oh," he said innocently, "I'm sure Tucker's waiting for you around here somewhere."

He was. Wash found him just around the corner, arms crossed and sulking about being left out, but waiting for him anyway.


	10. stuck in the middle with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tiny bit of tucker perspective.  
> find me at ragamuffiin on tumblr <3

Over the next few days, Washington found himself falling into a routine.

While living in a detention centre required something of the sort, with the entire thing structured to the core in order to be manageable, Wash was still surprised at it anyway. At one point in his life, in the middle of the years of misery he spent living in the same dark, cold, underground cell, going from fight to fight, he'd accepted that never in his entire life would he ever find peace.

He didn't know when he'd accepted that, or why, only that he'd always known that in his assumedly short life it was something he would never find. And while his life now wasn't  _peaceful_ , by any means, it was a hell of a lot closer than when he was fighting for his life every day. Despite the shaky start, and the rocky few days afterwards, he got his feet under him, just like Tucker promised.

He adjusted in many ways. He came to accept the mentality that the centre seemed to hold  **—**  he stopped wondering why the guards would watch you when you walked past in the middle of the day, but make no move to step in and send you back to wherever you were meant to be. If there was a fight, he quickly learned to stay well away from it, a response that fit slowly in with his instinct, if not the years of inbuilt experience. His body clock, which had always been fine tuned, was forced to adapt to the different times that the centre operated on. He often woke minutes before the lights were turned on, although he'd stay in bed and pretend to be asleep simply for the amusing sight he was greeted with each morning: Tucker hanging off the top bunk, morning after morning, to try and wake him up. 

He learnt that Tucker's nightmares really  _were_  an every night occurrence, although he hid it better some nights than others. He began waking up every time he heard the smallest of whimpers, and he never hesitated to climb up and pull Tucker from sleep, despite that Tucker assured him it was fine.

_"Church never did it. It's fine, dude, really."_

Wash ignored him, woke him anyway. Although Tucker's dreams were never as frequent as the first night, when he'd had nightmare after nightmare to the point where Wash had given up on sleeping and just lay awake, waiting to wake him again, they still came at least once a night. As for his own, he wasn't sure. He woke each night, sometimes with a scream caught in his throat, sometimes with his breathing so rapid and light that it was difficult to get it back under control again.

Sometimes Tucker woke him, sometimes Wash woke himself.

They never really talked about what they dreamed about, though Wash burned with a curiosity that was undeniable. Part of it was worry, the concern that it could be because of ongoing factors, but mostly it was just the sheer desire to know  _more._ More about Tucker, about what he was so scared of that he dreamed of it every night, but Tucker never volunteered any information and so neither did Wash. Tucker seemed to avoid everything about himself, whether he intended to or not. It was hard to miss that.

So Wash just waited  **—**  he spent every day with Tucker, for the most part, and maybe it was only a matter of time.

One thing he didn't accustom to, however, was the darkness. He didn't grow used to the moment the lights turned off, every night, and threw them into a blackness so deep it seemed to swallow him whole. His fear of it was so ingrained that it was instantaneous, and it didn't cease or become less of a burden to bear. He didn't know that it stemmed from an inherent terror, an unavoidable fear so deep he didn't even recognise it: the fear of the cells, of being back there. All he knew was that when it was dark, so dark he couldn't differentiate between squeezing his eyes shut and when they were wide open, he panicked. 

It was Tucker who helped him. Every night, without fail, he'd cough, or he'd move restlessly on the bed, or he'd pretend to kick the wall and make a noise, something or anything to remind Wash that he was there, that it was okay, that the world still existed outside the void of darkness that seemed to envelop them night after night. It was unspoken, and Wash appreciated it more than he could say.

During the day, breakfast was always an entertaining start. Caboose and Donut would be late, if Donut turned up at all. Despite his spiel of " _B_ _reakfast is the most important meal of the day!"_ , he rarely attended, often claiming he had better things to do. Wash knew better than to ask. Simmons and Grif would bicker, endlessly — something that whenever confronted about, would lead to cries of "Are you kidding? Have you  _listened_  to Tucker and Wash?" while Sarge bemoaned everyone's existence. 

It was... routine. It fell into something bordering on  _normal_  — as far as normal seemed to come.

He was still surprised that his practically nonexistent social skills had carried him this far. He wasn't always the best at picking up jokes, or telling when someone was being serious, but his natural perceptiveness and innate ability to adapt quickly to situations allowed him to pull by most of the time. He was learning, but he was doing it quickly, and he continued to improve.

Yet, despite the structured base of things, he quickly learned that the people he’d befriended had a particular talent for messing things up. They seemed to make their own way of things, and fit everything in around it. School was different every day, for starters. Some days Tucker went with him, and it'd be the five of them there, with Grif almost never in attendance, but sometimes it was just Wash, Simmons, and Caboose. Donut's choice to come seemed to depend on how he was feeling that day, or how busy he was.

Showers were always an uncomfortable affair, made worse on the nights that Tucker and Grif were suspiciously missing. Whenever they missed showers, Tucker didn't appear until just before final head checks, and they'd go straight to bed, with little conversation between them. That meant they missed dinner, too, and it was the only strange, dark mark on the otherwise understandable, familiar routine. Like Tucker himself, his actions were sometimes a mystery, and one that Wash wasn't confident enough to pry into.

Instead, he just watched, and tried to figure things out as he always had — his quiet observance had kept him grounded and alive this far, and it was a skill that still came in handy, because he  _learned_ things.

Odd things, quirks, little facts and observations that refused to go unnoticed. He learned that Simmons never showered completely naked, and that Donut's favourite colour was amaranth, which he argued was certainly  _red_ , not  _pink_ , maybe a lightish red? Grif had a sister, and Caboose had seventeen.  _Seventeen sisters._ Washington wasn't sure that Caboose hadn't counted them wrong, or something. Sarge really liked soap operas. That's what he did in rec time, when he wasn't with them. He'd just plant himself in front of the television and watch the shitty quality shows.

Often, if he hadn’t disappeared with Grif, Tucker would use some spare time to write, secretive letters to someone in the outside world. Wash didn't know who, and when he asked he received no answer, so he just added it to the list of mysteries that Tucker seemed to be made of, and time went on.

_Time went on._

He'd never imagined anything like this was ever possible for him. He never would have, because the pain that dreaming of freedom caused him had been almost unbearable at times. It was a miracle he'd escaped. If one thing had happened different, if his fight hadn't been scheduled, if a bullet had hit him, if he hadn't gotten free from the grasp of the men who'd owned him **—**

He'd be dead.

Tucker had said it himself. Everyone else had burned. Even if he'd been dragged back to the cells, he would have met the same fate all the others did. They burned, Wash escaped. Not only the cells, not only the  _fighting_  that had ruled his life for years, but from death. He didn't know how he'd made it as long as he had, but he knew he wouldn't have made it much longer. Whether by his own hand or the final fight gone wrong, he wouldn't be on this miserable excuse for a planet any longer. Yet, by some events set in motion, controlled by a force beyond Wash himself, he was here.

And he was surprised, by the end of his first week, to find that he'd actually made it.

* * *

He opened his eyes, on the beginning of his seventh day, to a familiar sight.

"You didn't even give me a chance to throw anything at you," Tucker complained, dreads swinging as he hung upside down to look at him. "Weak."

Wash stared back at him impassively. "I'm sorry. Would you like me to pretend I'm still sleeping? 

"No, the fun's ruined." Tucker wiggled down off of his bed, hanging off the edge for a moment before dropping to the floor. "I let you sleep in until breakfast for nothing. God damn it."

"There's a ladder, you know."

"Do know, don't care. C'mon, I'm starved."

"Why? The doors aren't open yet." Wash gestured to the front of the cell, and Tucker followed his gaze, looking surprised to see that the doors were, in fact, shut. He frowned and crossed the small room, wrapping his hands around the bars and giving them a tug.

"Weird," he commented. "Guards must be running late with the headchecks."

Another voice rang out, warm like honey, and completely unfamiliar. "Or someone isn't in their bed."

Wash was out of his bed and on the floor within a second, at Tucker's side and peering out at the cell opposite in the next. Tucker, on the other hand, barely even glanced at the source of the voice, simply making an unimpressed noise and blowing air out through his nostrils.

"Thanks. I'm glad I asked you. Oh, wait. I  _didn't_."

The boy in the cell opposite flashed them a grin and turned away before Wash could catch his eye, leaving him with the view of the back of a partly shaven head. Wash turned to Tucker, frowning.

"Who was that?" he asked, but he remembered a moment later, and his frown deepened.

"Felix."

Tucker's voice was sour, and Wash was on edge, running through his mind to pick out all the information he'd stored on  _Felix_. He'd seen very little of the boy in the cell opposite — glimpses. He hadn't once caught his eye, or even his attention, nothing to note about him that would make Wash pay any more attention. He'd focused on his group, and what he knew, but wondered whether Tucker's reaction meant he should have been paying more attention.

One glance at the dark look on Tucker's face said he should have.

"Ignore him," Tucker said, bitterly. "He's an asshole, and he’s just trying to start shit. I'm sure the guards are just late, that's all." At Wash's flat look, he raised a challenging eyebrow. "You better hope I'm right. Lockdowns fucking  _suck_ , dude. It throws everything out of whack."

When Wash was quiet, he sighed and walked back, flopping onto the bottom bunk. "Your bed not good enough?" Wash's voice was dry, matching the situation, but he was somewhat on autopilot.

"Nope. And hey, if we _do_  have a lockdown, you're gunna be glad I'm down here. Those things can last a fucking long time, and boredom sets in fast." His face hardened, and he looked sharply out at the other cell. "And  _that_  asshole makes it worse."

Wash sat next to him, perching on the edge of the bed. "How so?" 

A shrug. "He just starts shit." He glanced at Wash. "He started a riot, once. Of course, they didn't pin it on him, but we all knew."

Wash looked around, as if trying to imagine a riot occurring around him. "That sounds like... an interesting story," he finally said, his gaze returning to rest on Tucker.

"Something like that. Trust me, if we have a lockdown, we'll have plenty of time to exchange stories."

His voice was strained, and he didn't look too happy about that fact, so Wash put it down as bad experiences. "I'm sure we'll find plenty to talk about."

Tucker glanced at him, then shook his head and rolled over. A second later, a hand was thrust up expectantly, and Wash obediently handed him his pillow, then stood and grabbed Tucker's off the top bunk for himself.

"I see," he said, because Tucker was still frowning miserably into his blanket.

"No, it's just, you don't understand how bad lockdowns suck. Seriously. It's not just sitting in our cell all day, because we do that every Sunday. It's just... it's bad. The atmosphere. Something's always happened. Someone's dead, or there's a riot in a different part, or something. Normally the first, but occasionally the second."

"Right," Wash said, simply for lack of any other answer.

"Well, it wouldn't be a riot," Tucker determined, "because there's no way anyone could start a riot yet, we haven't been let out of our cells. Unless there was an escape, someone probably necked themselves."

"Jesus Christ."

"Hey, be glad it's not the dude you're sharing a cell with. I'd fucking freak if it happened to me." He eyed Wash warily, as if reevaluating Wash's chances of suddenly offing himself overnight, but seemed to come to the conclusion that he was safe for now.

"I  _am_  glad," Wash said simply, when Tucker looked away again. "So... is this a lockdown?" 

 

Whatever response Tucker had on his lips died away, because he'd turned to face outward, and what he'd seen there had clearly displeased him. He pulled a face and turned his body to face Wash directly, throwing a middle finger up in the direction he was no longer facing. Wash looked over just in time to see Felix wave from his own bed, a wolfish grin on his face.

"Don't give him the fuckin' time of day, dude," Tucker advised, somewhat hypocritically, and Wash turned back. "And  _no,_  it's not a lockdown. Not yet. You'll know when it is."

"How?"

Tucker gestured around. "Sirens. Yelling. Red light. The guards getting tight ass. I hope you don't mind loud noises, because the first sirens that come through are like fucking  _air raids_. The next five minutes are bullshit regular sirens and  _then_  they decide to grace us with silence."

Wash shifted. "I'm not a fan of them, no."

Tucker huffed. "Neither is Simmons. Dude freaks out just about as much as you'd expect, it's a good thing he's got Grif. Now seriously, either they better call the fucking lockdown or let us out."

"Just be patient."

"Wow. Words of wisdom. Let's see how long that lasts when you're withering away from boredom. And that's on Sundays alone."

"Well. Lucky for me, I have plenty of experience waiting around in cells."

Tucker huffed again, but this time it was almost a laugh, and Wash could see him fighting down the smile that pulled at his lips. Neither of them had a chance to say anything further before the cell doors slid open with a resounding clang.

"Fuck yes," Tucker hissed, jumping to his feet. "Oh, my god, sweet freedom."

Wash joined him. "Your concept of freedom is interesting."

He hesitated at the door, as he always did, looking for a break in the stream of boys heading towards the mess hall. He still held reservations about close contact, especially with people he knew nothing of, so joining into large crowds without a second thought wasn't something he could foresee himself doing anytime soon. It didn't matter, because as always, Tucker waited with him, and when they found a big enough gap they slipped in.

"This is your first Sunday, isn't it? Like, your first full one?" Tucker asked.

"I suppose it is."

"Lucky," Tucker told him, as they passed through the doors into the hall. "It's the only day of the week we get real potato."

They set their trays down at the table minutes later, and as expected, Grif and Simmons were already there. Donut joined them, as did Caboose, but Sarge was so far not in sight.

"The little triangles?"

"They're called wedges, dude," Grif laughed, mouth full of the golden potato. "And it is the realest shit you'll ever get here."

Wash looked meaningfully at Grif's tray. "I see your plate is already empty."

"Big surprise there," Tucker muttered.

"I resent that," Grif said, chewing loudly. "Hurts my feelings."

" _Tucker_ ," Donut chastised.

Tucker glanced up, spoon already halfway to his mouth. He'd bypassed the wedges for the time being, aiming for the regular gluggy porridge in favour of saving the best till last, and Wash was surprised he had the foresight to do that. "What?"

"Not only are you making discouraging remarks, you're clearly influencing Wash to do the same!"

"Excuse me?" Wash lifted an eyebrow.

"Yeah, what the fuck?"

"That's cute," Grif cut in. He reached over and snatched one of Tucker's wedges, because Tucker was staring at Donut.

" _Bro._  You think I'd waste the time and effort trying to convince Wash to pay Grif out? Dude does it himself, I've got  _nothin'_  to do with it."

"It's a natural thing," Simmons assured Wash, who was looking between them.

"I forgive you, buddy," Grif said, honourably.

Wash's response wasn't particularly emphatic. "Oh good."

Donut shot Tucker another look, and Tucker shook his head. "That was just coincidence. I swear, I have nothing to do with it. I’m telling you, he’s a sarcastic shit! He’s just opening up, y’know?"

At his response, Donut  _awwed_. "How adorable," he enthused. "You’re helping him develop as a person!"

"Hey, what the fuck?" Tucker asked, reaching for a wedge while he squinted at Donut. "Leave me the fuck alone, I didn’t—" he paused, abruptly, and turned to the rest of the table. "Who the  _fuck_  stole my wedges?"

Grif looked up, aware everyone's eyes were on him. "Wash?" he demanded. "What the fuck, man?"

_"Huh?"_

"Don't go eating Tucker's wedges like that!"

"What are you talking about?" Wash looked around, stunned. "I didn't—"

"I know it was you, Grif, you fat fuck! You owe me your wedges!"

"I don't have any wedges either!" Wash cried, suddenly. "How did you do that?"

Simmons pushed his food around on his plate. "Everyone underestimates him," he sighed to himself, underneath the sudden turn to chaos.

"Grif, I swear to _god_  you owe me your wedges," Tucker was warning, voice growing louder.

"I don't have any!" Grif gestured to his empty space on his plate where the wedges should have been, but Tucker slammed his open fists on the desk and leaned in.

"Next week. All of them."

Grif jabbed a finger at Wash. "I swear to _god,_ Wash."

"How is this _my_ fault _—"_

" _You're dead to me—"_

* * *

The first thing Tucker did when they returned to their cells after breakfast was make a beeline for Wash's bed.

"You know, if you want the bed so badly, you can have it," Wash offered.

"And give up my position as alpha male?" He ignored Wash's scoff. "I don't think so. Nice try."

"Alpha male. Because you have the top bunk."

"That, and my stunning good looks." Tucker ran his hand through his dreads and pulled them back, turning profile and pressing his lips together in a pout.

"I can barely resist you," Wash intoned. 

Tucker dropped the act with a roll of his eyes. "Thanks. My confidence levels appreciate it."

"I'm sure they could use a bit of modesty."

Tucker, who'd been positioning himself with both the pillows, paused. "What's that meant to mean?"

"Nothing. Give my pillows back."

"Get your own." Wash laughed, a rapid-fire burst of laughter that made Tucker jump. "Dude, what the fuck?"

"What on earth makes you think there's anything stopping me from just taking my pillow back?  _And_  yours?"

"My charming charisma?" Wash waited, then started advancing. "Uh, my good looks again? The fact you know I'd beat you up and totally take all your stuff?" Tucker tried desperately, backing away on the bed and holding the pillows protectively to his chest.

That seemed to be the right thing to say, or at least bought him a little more time, because Wash actually stopped, hand still extended to reach out and take the pillow from him. "Really," Wash asked flatly, a not-quite question, and Tucker nodded.

"Definitely."

"And you're sure that's the answer you want to go with."

Tucker hesitated. "Yes?"

Before Tucker could even register what he was doing, Wash had snatched the first of the pillows out from Tucker's grip, his strength allowing him to yank it out from the death grip Tucker had held onto it with. He stepped back, admired the pillow with contentment, and turned back to Tucker's blinking face.

"Your mistake there was clutching it to your chest with your forearms," he advised. "Had you used your hands, I would have been forced to either pry your hands away, yank with enough force to hurt you, or pull your arms away completely." Tucker was still blinking at him, staring as if he didn't believe Wash had managed to steal the pillow from his arms. He hadn't even had time to react. "You don't want to readjust your position? Try and make it more difficult?" Wash offered.

When a second passed and Tucker didn't move, Wash shrugged and started forward. Tucker quickly jerked back, grip on the pillow tightened, and he glared up at him as he advanced.

"I don't know what black magic you've got going," he said warily, and Wash stifled a laugh, "but you better stay away from this pillow. This one is  _mine_."

Wash faked a lunge forward, and Tucker's arms tightened momentarily before loosening in surprise when he realised Wash wasn't going for it. Naturally, that opening was used for Wash to dart forward and yank the pillow down, rather than out, and that gave him enough leeway to overcome Tucker's strength and take the pillow completely. He slid out of reach and held the pillows up.

"Well. That was difficult."

Tucker was gaping. "I can't believe you just attacked me for some pillows."

"Attacked you? I didn't lay a hand on you!"

It took a moment for Tucker to realise that no, Wash hadn't actually touched him. He pursed his lips, the beginning of a contemplative look that Wash was quickly becoming familiar with, and Washington prepped himself and waited for the inevitable questions. The first came a moment later, with a small downward tug of Tucker's lip that Wash couldn't look away from.

"How'd you do that?"

"Ah." He felt his face redden, so he quickly sat down, and threw a pillow back to Tucker as a distraction. He'd gotten sidetracked, caught up in how he'd been right in his judgement of Tucker, in what he'd been about to do. It wasn't even just that he was  _right_ , most of the time, regarding Tucker — it was how fun he was to read.

The twist of his lips, the flicker of his eyes, his subtle shifts in posture... the tense and untense of his shoulders — like a movie being played out, and how he’d always let his eyes rest on Wash for a few seconds before he’d look away again. Wash liked the way he looked at him. It was like being looked at was something completely new when Tucker did it, because he always gave the feeling of being really  _seen._

"Wash? Dude?"

Wash cleared his throat, tried to remember the last thing Tucker had said. "I told you. Your grip on it was horrible. All I did was snatch it."

"Yeah, but you didn't hurt me."

"Good. That was the point."

Tucker was quiet, and Wash was wondering whether it was because of what he'd said when Tucker started nodding. "That was actually kind of cool, Wash. I never thought I'd say that, but it's true."

"I don't believe it was. It was just a matter of good timing and knowing your opponent."

"'Knowing your opponent,'" Tucker repeated with a scoff. "Yeah, right, because me, the dude with two pillows, is an opponent. Oh no, what a threat I make. What am I gunna do, smother you with them?"

"Not at the rate you're going."

Tucker squinted at him. "Ouch. It's not my fault you're a super secret fighter who can kick like, anyone’s ass. How am I meant to win in a fight against that?"

"You're not," Wash said sharply, meeting his gaze. He looked away almost immediately, shaking his head imperceptibly. "That wasn't... that wasn't fighting."

"Chill, dude," Tucker said, but his voice was soft rather than condescending. "You know what I mean. And like, no offense, but I'd never pick a fight with you. I prefer my ass intact, in all it's glorious beauty."

It worked, because Wash relaxed. "Right. Because the first thing you assume I'd go for is your ass."

"I'd be offended if you didn't," Tucker returned immediately, but then he laughed. "Seriously, though. You could probably just knock me right the fuck out. I mean, I'm not like, mega incapable or anything, I could totally kick ass, but I'll admit it."

"I wouldn't hit you."

"I know that, my face is way too beautiful."

"You're right. I'd just put you in a sleeper hold instead." Tucker's jaw dropped, and before he could say anything Wash cut him off. " _No_ ," he said firmly, regretting opening his mouth.

"But you just said—"

"I know what I said. I don't want to talk about this, Tucker."

It was such a bold, immediate response that it took Wash a few moments to even realise that he'd said it. He immediately glanced at him, trying to gauge his reaction, but Tucker wasn't looking at him, instead looking decidedly away. Wash felt cold, overcome with a wave of anxiety that made his entire body tense.

Quiet reigned for a few moments.

"You've gotta admit, knowing how to do a sleeper hold is pretty fucking awesome."

At first, Wash was exasperated and annoyed, but he realised that if it came down to it, he'd rather talk to Tucker about this than not talk to him at all. Thankfully, Tucker changed the subject.

"So, if you don't mind me asking," — and that was sarcastic, of course it was, but it was relieving because that was the first real time Wash barred him on anything, and Tucker didn’t hold it against him.

He didn't know why it was this subject, of all things, that made him balk against the conversation. All he knew was that his mind had been running over the move, playing it out in his mind in all the times he'd done it to someone, and suddenly it had been Tucker he'd been dragging to the floor and squeezing the life out of.

He shook his head rapidly and cleared his thoughts, because he knew why he'd stopped the conversation so suddenly.

"— to find out. It's not anything scary, don't worry. Just a good way to test strength."

Wash blinked. "Uh, what is?"

"Arm wrestling, dude."

"What's—"

"How did I know you were gunna ask that? Okay, I'll show you. We need a flat surface. I'd say use the desk, but it's a weird height."

"I'd love an explanation," Wash said, as he followed Tucker's lead and got onto the floor. 

"I'd love to know how you don't know what arm wrestling is," Tucker replied, and gestured for Wash to get down on his stomach. "I know, shut up, don't answer that. Here, put your arm flat, and lift up the other. Which is your dominant arm? Right?" At Wash's nod he continued. "Alright, left is mine, so we can go left because honestly I don't think you need the advantage. Now come on."

"Alright," Wash said hesitantly. He glanced towards the door, feeling foolish, but Felix wasn't looking and there were no guards in sight. He turned back. "And we just... what?"

"Grab my hand."

Wash did so, and Tucker stared at their conjoined hands for a second before bursting into laughter. "Not like that," he managed, his eyes alight with amusement. "Why would you lace our fingers? Holy shit." He dissolved into more laughter as Wash pulled his hand away defensively.

"You had your fingers spread," Wash defended. "I didn't know what was expected of me."

"Sure thing, Wash, I believe you." After a few more moments at Wash's expense, Tucker regained himself and wiped his eyes. "Grif is never hearing of that," he told him meaningfully, and wrapped his hand around Wash's. "Alright. Okay, straighten your elbow out. Move back a little so you're more comfortable, and you're not putting your body weight into it, because that gives you an advantage. Okay, ready?"

"You haven't explained the—"

"Go!"

There was no warning. Tucker just grinned at him, and before he knew it Wash’s hand was sailing downwards. Wash had a split second to react, but he did, stopping them just before his hand collided with the hard ground again. Tucker had a cry of victory on his lips, but it died down when he realised what had happened.

"Aw, what the fuck—" he started, when Wash suddenly reversed it and Tucker's hand collided with the ground. Painfully. " _Fuck_ ," he swore, pulling his hand out of Wash's grip and shaking it. "Ah, you motherfucker."

"I'm sorry," Wash said, peering at him in confusion. "I thought that was the aim of the game."

"Yeah, I bet. The point is to  _overpower_  your opponent,  _not_  how hard you can slam someone's hand into the ground."

"Wouldn't it be better to do both?"

He pulled his arms in to rest on them more comfortably, still throwing occasional glances at the cell door. He felt vulnerable lying on his stomach, but there were no immediate threats around, so he focused on Tucker. He had to admit, they looked ridiculous, and Tucker seemed to realise what he was thinking, because he laughed before Wash did.

"We're not the first to do it," he told him. "Everyone who's any degree of strong has arm wrestled. Although not normally on the floor. We usually save it for dinner tables. Oh, you can go against Sarge and Caboose!"

Wash gave a half laugh. "We'll see," he said, even though he had no intention of doing so. He was fairly sure Sarge would use the opportunity to try and break his arms. He was the only one that seemed to consistently attend the gym, and it paid off — he wasn't someone Wash would want to go up against.

He started to get up.

"Hey. Get back here. I'm not done with you yet."

"But I just beat you." Wash tilted his head in confusion but lay back onto his stomach, extending his arm again and resuming the odd position.

"Yeah, but you cheated."

"Excuse me?"

"'Three-two-one- _go_."

Wash didn't hesitate. He flexed his muscles and bore down, and Tucker's hand impacted with the ground.

"Fuck!"

Instead of letting go and pulling away like Wash thought he would, Tucker quickly tried to press back up and take Wash by surprise, sore knuckles be damned. He did, but Wash caught on and he reflexively pushed Tucker's hand back down again, frowning at him to make sure he wasn't doing anything wrong.

"Goddamn it," Tucker cursed. "Man, am I doing anything?" His entire upper body was tense and he was squeezing Wash's hand with a death grip. 

"Stop talking, it takes away from your concentration. I can feel the pressure lessen when you open your mouth."

"Bow chicka wow wow."

Wash stared at him, but Tucker refocused on their hands, and the pressure increased. He could see Tucker visibly straining now, and the strength it took to keep his arm solidly in place was making his arm begin to ache. He wondered how Tucker was feeling. When he looked up, he was met with Tucker staring intently at him, eyes narrowed in sheer concentration. When Wash looked back at him, he was surprised that he didn't look away, so he held his own gaze for several moments until Tucker relented.

"You gunna give up?" Tucker demanded, and another sudden push made Wash waver before they restabilized.

Wash laughed, but he quickly stopped when he lost a bit of ground. He regained it immediately, and Tucker made a defeated noise.

Wash's lip twitched up in a smirk. "I was under the impression I was winning."

"Well you'd be wrong," came Tucker's answer, and the strain in his voice was audible. "I'm just... getting your confidence up." As Wash had warned, when Tucker spoke, his attention was diverted, and some of the pressure against Wash's hand eased up. He seemed to sense it at the same time, because he blew an annoyed breath through his nose."This is all your fault. Alright, let me go. I don't want you like, crushing my hand into the ground with your stupid strength."

It was almost comical how slowly they eased off the pressure. Tucker cautiously relented for fear of getting his hand crushed, and Wash matched his pace. It took a few seconds, but soon, the pressure was gone.

"Alright, now you're just holding my hand, dude."

Wash released him. "I didn't think we were done."

"Not yet. One final time. That was all practice, this'll be the final decider. No more cheating, Wash. On my count, go as hard as you can."

"And just bear down on you until you hit the ground?"

Tucker stared indignantly at him. "Or until you hit the ground."

"I think, at this point, that—"

"Don't care. Ready?" Wash rolled his eyes, and after a moment he nodded, and tensed his hand around Tucker's in preparation. "One, two, three—"

Tucker didn't have a chance. Half a second after the final word had left his lips, his hand was cracked into the ground and pain shot through his arm. "Son of a bitch!" he howled, yanking his hand away and cradling it to his chest, a hiss of pain escaping his lips. He moved his hand to grab his shoulder, whining, before he rolled onto his back and groaned at the ceiling. "It was on  _go,_ asshole, not  _three_."

"I'm sorry. Are you alright?" Wash asked, already on his knees and at Tucker's side, and embarrassment and regret crept scarlet into his cheeks.

"I think you broke my hand, dude," Tucker said miserably. "And dislocated my shoulder."

"I'll take that as an okay, then," Wash tried to joke, but nerves were twisting in his stomach and he hovered, hands twitching with the desire to check Tucker over for serious injuries. Eventually, he gave in. "Give me your hand," he ordered, and didn't wait for Tucker to argue before he reached over and closed a hand around Tucker's wrist.

He settled onto his knees and held Tucker's hand over his lap, twisting it and turning it and checking for immediate discolouration or bruising. His knuckles were swelling, but pressing down on them only brought a hiss of pain and a  _motherfucker_  tossed his way, so he assumed they weren't broken. He said as much.

"What makes you think I'm not just super manly and hiding all the pain?" Tucker asked. He squirmed uncomfortably when Wash ran his fingers over the skin on Tucker's hands, checking for more swelling.

"Unless you suddenly developed an extremely high pain tolerance within the past few seconds," Wash said blandly, "then no."

"Jeez, how about,  _I'm sorry Tucker for breaking your fingers?"_

"They're not broken. If you'd like to go make a comparison between Donut's fingers, I'm sure you'll find that even now, there's quite a difference."

Tucker lifted an eyebrow, and Wash realised what he'd said. He started to backtrack, but Tucker cut him off with a laugh. "No, dude, that was funny. Last thing I expected you to say." He sat upright, making to groan dramatically as he did. "I swear, if you turn out to secretly be an asshole, I'm gunna kick you out of here."

"Right. Because you could do that."

"O-hoh," Tucker said, jabbing a finger at him. "See, here it is. That's what I'm talking about. Should I draw you a label and start calling you Church now, or later? I'm sure it'd make Caboose's fucking day."

Wash picked up on that thread with some interest. "Caboose does seem to mention Church a lot."

Tucker laughed. "Yeah, you think? Did you really notice? I'm amazed, honestly, how smart you are—"

 _"Alright._  It was just an observation."

"The most unnecessary one I've ever heard," Tucker snickered. "Really. Like, wow."

Wash didn't respond, so Tucker just leaned back against the wall, positioning his pillow behind him and settling in. Wash looked at the cell door, still closed, and remembered what Tucker had said about Sundays. The doors only opened for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, except for people with visitors.

He'd seen a few going past already, accompanied by guards, but none of them had come back so far. He glanced at Tucker and wondered if he'd get any visitors.

Something in him told him he wouldn't, and he didn't ask.

* * *

"Really, though, are your fingers okay?"

"They’re fine, stop worrying. I’ve survived worse than a few agonising broken fingers."

" _Tucker_."

"Alright, fine, for real. They’re okay." With a final sigh at him, Wash began to relax back into the bedding, but he stopped when he saw Tucker gearing up to say something, the corner of his eyes crinkling with mirth. "Hey, if you want," Tucker started, holding back snickers, "maybe holding them would make me feel better. You know, grab them how you did earlier?"

Wash stared impassively ahead, refusing to look at Tucker, because he could hear the smug laughter in his voice.

"Remember that, Wash? When you—" he broke off to laugh, "—laced our fingers together?"

"I do remember that, Tucker. Interestingly enough, my memory extends that far back. Perhaps that’s more than can be said for you, because it sounds like you could use a reminder on just how sore your fingers can get."

"Woah, alright, hold on," Tucker backpedalled, but he was laughing now. "Let’s not get hasty. I wasn’t making fun of you, or anything."

"Really? Because I was under the impression that that was exactly what you were doing."

"Uh, no? No way. Not making fun of you. I was just, you know...uh... thinking that, um. It should definitely be our new thing. Yeah, totally. Sounds great."

Wash gave a startled laugh. "Excuse me?"

"It can totally work," Tucker argued, but Wash just laughed again, and a stubborn thrill went through him. "Here, hold up your hand."

His laughing stopped, but his smile remained as Wash cocked his head at him curiously. When Tucker impatiently gestured at him, holding his own hand up with his fingers open, Wash obeyed.

"See?" Tucker prompted, lacing their fingers together and squeezing briefly before letting go with an extravagant flair. "Totally like, our thing now."

"Our thing. And when exactly will we ever find an appropriate time to do _that_?"

"Oh, y’know," Tucker waved it off. "All the time. Anyway," he said, a few moments later and picking up a conversation from nowhere, "it's not the most interesting conversation, but I'll tell you about Church. Since, y'know, you asked." He grabbed a pillow and attempted to fluff it, as if it wasn’t the flattest lump of fabric he’d ever held.

"Go ahead," Wash offered, following Tucker's cue and settling in.

"Right." There was a moment of awkward silence. "Second thoughts," he laughed, "I suck at telling stories. How about you tell something."

"Tucker, really. You mention Church a lot, and I'd like to — or enough to make me notice," he revised, when Tucker looked horrified.

"I do not! I can't _believe_ you just said that. Alright, yeah, maybe I bring him up, but it's only to call him an asshole. Like, seriously. Asshole. That's Church."

"You sound like you miss him."

" _Hah._ No. Good riddance."

"Why?"

"Because! He was a total dick. You remember what I told you about him on like, your second day here?"

Wash thought back.

 

_They kept moving kids out of Church's room because he was such an asshole. He never hit them, just riled them up to the point where they hit him."_

"Exactly," Tucker confirmed, and Wash was surprised to find that he'd voiced the last of that aloud. "He wasn't like, bad enough for A block like Sarge, so he got stuck in B and C with the rest of us."

"Sarge in A block..." Wash murmured, distracted, his mind flicking through what limited information he had about him. "For... murder?"

"Something like that. You heard it yourself, he beat his step dad to death."

Wash didn't flinch — it wasn’t _quite_ a flinch, but it was damn close, a sudden and noticeable tense of every muscle in his body. He'd had his cautions about Sarge, based on his strength and demeanour alone. He'd already been aware of the fact that Sarge was kept in A block, and that he had guards lead him to and from certain places, and it was that more than anything made Wash wary.

He thought about it.

"Why would he..." he began to ask, then glanced sharply at Tucker, waiting to see if he was threatening to cross any unspoken lines. When Tucker just watched him coolly, he licked his lips and shrugged, letting the rest of the sentence speak for itself.

"Tonne of reasons," Tucker eventually sighed. "Shitty step dad. Talked with his fists, if you know what I mean." He'd sounded neutrally disinterested before, an obviously put on facade, but now he straightened. "Honestly, Sarge should be in B and C with the rest of us."

"Why?" 

"He only got done so hard for it because his _mother_ spoke against him. I mean, she'd let it all happen, which is bad enough, but then she went and fucking _nailed_ him in the trial. Said all this shit, called him a liar, basically got him done in singlehandedly. Like, _fuck_ her."

Wash had no idea how to react to that. He kept his body and face carefully neutral, but Tucker wasn't even looking at him. He was staring off to the side with an expression Wash hadn't seen on him before, but it was undoubtedly disgust. It didn't look good, and it was gone in an instant, his lip uncurling and his dreads flicking as he shook his head rapidly.

"Grif's got money on her being a gold digger, but we don't really know shit. You might not have noticed, but Sarge isn't exactly the most approachable dude." He gave a halting, sarcastic laugh. "We only know what we do from Donut."

"Donut?" Wash scrunched up his face, trying to picture the connection the two of them would have that would enable the exclusive sharing of such a private story.

"Yeah. He loves the dude. Not like, _loves_ loves, obviously, but I dunno. I think he's more whipped than the rest of us. Anyway, why the fuck are we talking about Sarge? I never thought my life would come to this, but here we are."

"Because it happened to be mentioned that he killed someone, and that’s something I would generally prefer to know a little more about."

Tucker blinked at him. "Oh. Right."

"Not all of us have your level of knowledge, Tucker," Wash said, and there was no hint of sarcasm in his tone. "It’s things like this that might have been better off with a little more forewarning."

"What, that he killed someone? Who cares?"

Wash stared at him. "I do."

"Oh," Tucker said again, "right."

There was a beat of silence, but it remained surprisingly unawkward, acting as a simple end to a conversation that just didn’t carry on immediately into another. Tucker tapped his fingers on his thigh and looked around, searching for a conversation topic regardless, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Wash furrow his brow. He cocked his head at him, letting him know he was waiting, and Wash nodded almost imperceptibly in his direction while he tried to gather his thoughts. 

It was strange, the silent level of communication they had. It wasn’t like anything Tucker had ever experienced before, but it wasn’t completely foreign, either. After a moment, it struck him. He’d seen it before — on Grif and Simmons.

The wordless, unexplained method of communication they shared was something Tucker had seen countless time. He’d catch a conversation between them made up of flitting hand gestures and facial expressions that could last only a few seconds, or, if they were required to be quiet, as long as it seemed necessary. And catching himself sharing it with Wash was... pretty fucking cool, actually.

Tucker would have to test this, and see just how far it went. Surely Wash didn’t realise he was doing it either, but then, he was a pretty strange guy. And he was pretty aware of a lot of things, so it was possible that what was subconscious to Tucker was fully known to Wash.

Either way, he decided that he liked it.

He glanced at Wash, and was surprised to see him watching him. He arched a brow, and Wash shook himself, offering a brief smile before parting his lips, his tongue darting out to run over them as he prepared to say whatever he was going to say. Then he was speaking, and it took Tucker a few moments to draw his eyes away and tune in to his words.

"Donut does seem to have quite the impact on people," Wash pointed out.

Tucker tried to resist the urge to roll his eyes, failed, and rolled them anyway. "Oh, my god. You sound like a robot. If you don't like the dude, that's fine."

"I like Donut," Wash defended. "We're past our differences, and we've gotten along fine since. I just don't often get the chance to talk to him."

He paused, and Tucker just nodded, doubt clear in the ridiculously sly smile he gave him. "You aren't still avoiding him at all."

It was then that Wash realised Tucker hadn't been experiencing the same conversations he had.

Two times since the _birthday night_ , as Donut dubbed it, he'd been cornered by the perky blonde and asked questions that were presented as innocent, but clearly held some underlying desire for information. Unless he was just being paranoid and Donut really was just being polite, which was... always a possibility.

Tucker was still watching him, his smile spread enough to show his pointed canines, and Wash suddenly felt an urge to change the subject. He could figure out whatever Donut was hinting at in his own time — if Tucker did know, he’d probably tell him.

"I thought you were going to tell me about Church," he finally said, his tone defensive, because Tucker had begun snickering at him.

He only gave another pointed laugh. "What, have you never experienced regular conversation before? Subjects change, dude. You don't always have to go into a conversation with the goal of getting information. Ever heard of small talk?"

"From what I've seen amongst you and the others, I think I prefer my method."

" _Ugh._ Fine, I'll tell you about  Church. Just — why are you so interested in him?"

"Well, you said you'd tell me about him. Aside from that... you called for him when you woke up on my first night here."

He'd admitted it, for better or worse, that it had meant something to him, being called by someone else's name in the darkness, wrapped in Tucker's strangled, fearful breath.

Tucker looked away, then back, but he didn't meet Wash's eye. "Okay, no, I didn't _call for him_ , I thought you were him because I forgot that he was gone and you were here. It's pitch black, and I'd only just woken up. Give a guy a break."

"But you did say you'd tell me about him."

Tucker groaned, rolling his head back to stare at the bottom of the bunk bed in exasperation. "Oh, my god, alright. He sat with us, I shared a cell with him, I got to hear _all about_ his bitch of a girlfriend, Tex, and the stupid fucking smuggling shit she was doing that she got Church caught up in, and how she left him every time to save her own ass. Seriously, the dude never shut up about her.  _Tex did this_ and _Tex left me for that_ and I didn't care, dude, but it's hard to ignore it when you literally live together."

"I remember you mentioned that he'd been in and out a few times," Wash prompted, almost automatically, when he realised he’d been quiet long enough for Tucker to look at him.

"Yeah," Tucker snorted, "like four times. He first got into shit when he was like, fourteen, and he met Tex when he was fifteen. He only got done for little shit, every time, except for one time Tex used him as a getaway distraction when they were robbing a bank, which got him a year sentence, but... like I said, now he's eighteen. If Tex fucks him over, he's in for it."

"Right," Wash said, thinking that over. "They try to make eighteen the cut off."

"Yeah, they try at least to give you some sort of chance. They don't want kids who are barely legal adults to be shoved straight into prison, because that's just asking for trouble."

Wash nodded in agreement. "They— they were talking about taking a few months off of my sentence, because they didn't know my age."

"Did they?"

He shrugged. "In the end, they just guessed. I think they took about two months off the final sentence, which makes my birthday about... December."

"Hey, that's Junior's—" Tucker froze, and Wash tilted his head at him curiously. "I mean, uh. Which December? This or next? I can't remember if you were seventeen," he said rapidly, suddenly interested in everything except meeting Wash’s eyes.

"Seventeen," Wash confirmed, watching him. "Who is Junior?"

"Nobody," Tucker said immediately, then winced. "I mean, not nobody, but— it's not important. Well not _not important_ , but—"

"Do you have a brother?"

"No. Don't ask." He clenched the bedsheets in frustration.

"Tucker?" Wash eyed his white knuckles with growing curiosity. "Who’s Junior?"

Tucker looked at him, then at everything else, refusing to make full eye contact with him after he realised Wash wasn’t just going to let this one go. Eventually, after a minute of stubborn silence, he seemed to deflate, shrinking down and peeking at Wash from the corner of his eye.

"Junior’s... my kid," he finally admitted. As if saying the words aloud were all it took, the hesitation disappeared, and he straightened his back, meeting Wash’s gaze almost defiantly. "He’s my kid."

"Your kid," Wash repeated, tentatively, his own level of hesitant at the sudden unexpected turn the conversation had taken.

"Yeah, that’s right. Got something to say?"

"I— no, I just—"

"Just _what?"_

Wash backpedalled. "I— wait a minute, calm down."

Although he was well aware of Tucker’s rising aggression levels, he wasn’t alarmed. Instead, he regarded Tucker evenly, taking into account and analysing the entire conversation.

First things first, it was pretty clear Tucker wasn’t joking. In fact, he looked more serious than Wash might have ever seen him, his entire body taut and his jaw squared. He had his gaze focused only on Wash now, waiting for the telling hint of a smile or an outright laugh to show that the boy he shared a cell with wouldn’t take him seriously.

And Wash, he had to bite back the immediate _holy shit_ that came to his tongue, because through and through Tucker was far from the first person he’d imagine to have a kid.

Tucker seemed to know it, too, and it seemed to be what was making him so agitated — what kept him watching Wash with hard eyes and more distrust than Wash had ever wanted to see directed at him. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it, but he realised pretty quickly it was an automatic response.

It was clearly a sensitive issue, and Wash thought he could understand why.

He took a moment to sit back and think it through, aware Tucker was still watching him, waiting. But one thing Wash had learned while he was here that taking cues from people was often a decent way to go, and while Tucker wasn’t _intentionally_ perceptive, Wash had discovered that to some extent, he was. So he locked eyes with Tucker and waited for him to calm down, and it worked.

After several seconds of intense staring, Tucker looked away.

"A kid, huh?" Wash teased, gently, when Tucker’s hands unclenched. He received a sharp, calculating look that melted again moments later.

"Yeah," Tucker said shortly. " _My_ kid."

Wash weighed his options. He was in a tentative place, he knew that, in an ocean that was deeper than it looked, and he wasn’t about to dive in.

"Can I ask how old he is?" he edged, the burning curiosity in him spiking at his decision to test the waters.

Tucker hesitated. "Almost two," he answered after a moment, watching Wash cautiously.

Wash nodded. "So you would have been..."

"Fifteen." Tucker narrowed his eyes at him. "Why, what of it?"

"Just trying to get more information," Wash said honestly.

There were a few more beats of silence. _Fifteen_. It was so _young_ , Tucker still only a child himself — how could it have happened? Was it part of why Tucker was here?

When Wash didn’t speak up, Tucker stiffened again, assuming the worst. He was edgy, the tense atmosphere returning, and Wash caught onto it instantly, as Tucker began to speak.

"Look, if you’re going to be a cunt about it—"

"Does he look like you?" 

Tucker broke off to stare at him. "What?" he asked, when Wash didn’t elaborate.

"I’m trying to picture it. I have to admit, I can only imagine you, but... smaller."

Tucker slowly leaned back, eyes still focused solely on him, but Wash could practically feel his defenses gradually lowering. He waited patiently, and true to his hopes, a few moments later Tucker spoke up.

"Yeah, well then you’ve got it," he admitted, shifting his position against the wall. Some of the tension was gone from his shoulders, and he kept darting glances away, then back at Wash.

"Really? He looks like you?"

After a few more long seconds of hesitation and wariness, Tucker finally nodded. He looked away and nodded again, aware Wash was watching him intently, but a faint hint of a smile ghosted his lips. "A fucking carbon copy, dude."

"Is that why you called him Junior?"

Tucker huffed a laugh, and at that moment it was Wash’s favourite sound in the world. "No, I just couldn’t think of anything else. Trust me, I could have made it a lot worse. His mother was from Sangheilos." He didn’t know whether he was relieved that Wash stared blankly at him or not. "Right. You don’t know much about anything, I keep forgetting that."

Wash shrugged good naturedly, letting it slide. "Is Sangheilos meant to hold some sort of meaning for me? I know the language but, well, that's about it."

"Jesus Christ. Alright, well, it’s an alien planet. What’s important is that she was _human,_ " he stressed. "But she was... into some weird shit." When that only met him with more blank staring, he sighed in frustration. "She was part of a worshipping cult — praised the aliens like gods, part of a cult that was created there. Long story. I might tell you some other time."

"Alright," Wash agreed, because he didn’t want to push it, and he didn’t understand practically anything Tucker was saying.

Tucker nodded. "So basically, he could have had some long ass, practically unpronouncable name, or he could be Junior. You can see what I went with."

"But I thought you spoke Sangheili," Wash cut in, frowning. "I heard you— and Donut told me."

Tucker shrugged. "Had to learn it. Good thing, too, because it turns out it’s all he speaks."

"Isn’t he... only two?"

"Yeah? So he speaks. Just happens that none of it's English."

"But wouldn’t he... learn his language from you? Wait, is this something else that should be better explained in full?" 

Tucker shook himself. "Yeah. Right, look, I’ll tell you all of it another time. For now, let’s just change the subject."

"Okay."

"Wash?" He waited for Wash to look at him. "Thanks for not being an asshole about it."

"I wouldn’t dream of it," Wash said honestly, before he could think it through, because it was the first response that came to mind. He was glad he said it when Tucker just rolled his eyes, because he knew that was his way of accepting it, and he expected the next thing he said to be a lighthearted jab at his choice of wording. Instead—

"Yeah, well, people around here find out you’re writing letters to your two year old kid, and they aren’t usally as understanding," he said instead, and his voice was _cold._ Without seeming to be aware of it, his hand brushed against his jawline, and Wash recognised that move, had seen it before — when he’d been hiding in the bathrooms, tending to his own injuries after being jumped.

Tucker’s hand dropped away from his face, and Wash was overwhelmed with a desire to replace it, to graze his hand along Tucker’s skin where past bruises had blossomed and faded, and let him know he deserved more than that. Because he understood immediately, realised exactly what that reflex meant, and a burning, bright anger was ignited within him, a scorching fire racing through his veins that he’d never thought he’d willingly welcome.

"If anyone is ever anything other than understanding to you again, I’ll make sure they learn their lesson."

He'd spoken without thinking, the words slipping out without conscious decision, and he didn’t even realise how he’d sounded until Tucker jerked his head up to look at him in surprise.

He stared at him, long and hard, holding his gaze as if testing his resolve, seeing how serious Washington really was. And even though he hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t realised those words would pass his lips, Wash meant it. Neither of them moved for a long moment as they looked at each other, until finally Wash raised his hand and held it up, his fingers partly open. Tucker glanced at his hand in surprise, then back at Wash, before realisation crossed his features.

Slowly, he mimicked the action, lifting his hand and parting his fingers enough to lock them around Wash’s, and their palms pressed together.

Neither of them said anything, and Tucker was the first to let go, loosening his grip after Wash briefly squeezed tight enough to give Tucker a jolt. They unlocked their fingers and released each other, sharing a smile tinged by a little awkwardness that turned into laughter as the atmosphere eased, all the tension fading with an almost tangible relief. They leaned back against the wall and Tucker picked up another conversation, returned to talking about meaningless nonsense with ease. 

It meant something. Maybe neither of them knew exactly what, yet, but they knew it was _something_ , and it was important.

And deep down, they knew that it was good.


	11. a matter of time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the amazing responses to last chapter! it completely made my week <3 
> 
> also, note: there's a few things that will be explained in detail very soon, that won't be included in the main fic. i'll give another brief announcement before I do it, but if you're following me on tumblr, keep an eye out, because there'll be a few important (but not vital!) things posted regarding this fic when the chapters draw near.
> 
> okay, that's all! find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! <3

Halfway through a conversation about the solar system, Tucker broke off to stare at Wash.

"So," he started, and Wast waited patiently to see where he’d go with this, happy to have the failure of an impromptu lesson over with. "We were way off."

There were a few seconds of silence while he tried to make sense of Tucker’s words, before he gave up. "Sorry?"

"Your birthday," Tucker elaborated. "We were way off. It’s a while from December still."

"Oh." Wash thought about it. "Yes, but they were, too, I think. However, I—"

Tucker interrupted him with aggressive shushing noises. "Don’t tell me," he ordered, covering his ears. "I like my idea better."

There were several long moments while Wash stared impassively at him. "However, I won't spoil it," he continued, when he was sure Tucker was done. "If you'd prefer to keep my birthday changing."

Tucker nodded before he got back to the point. "So, you're gone in December," he said, and ran his hand through his dreads subconsciously, pulling one in front of his face to play with.

Wash realised it was the first time they'd ever really talked about it. "Yes. I can't remember the exact date, but it's December."

"Not long at all, dude." Tucker nodded to him. "You’ll be out before most of us, except Simmons, and maybe Donut." He caught onto the look that crossed Wash's face. "Remember, Simmons is out in two months? He’s been here probably the longest, except for Church, but Church was in and out so it doesn’t really count. And I can’t remember when Sarge gets out, except that it's sometime early next year. You'll be out like, right after Simmons... Oh, and Donut’s still on trial."

"Right," Wash agreed. His mind had caught on Donut’s name, the mention of it with trial, and with a start he realised why. "What about... when are you gone? I remember Donut mentioning something about your trial."

There was a brief pause. "Yeah," Tucker said shortly. "It's ongoing."

"Does that mean you... They didn't finish the trial first?" he asked, dancing around the main question.

It was easy, almost, to forget that they all had reasons they were here. Finding out about Sarge hadn’t helped that realisation either. But there was a line, and he didn’t want to cross it, even if he desperately wanted to know more about the boy in front of him. And something was telling him he was close to crossing it despite that, because Tucker was tense, shifting to avoid his eye, and everything about him screaming discomfort. Nonetheless, the next words out of his mouth were "It's not my first trial. It got challenged."

"Not your first..." Wash regarded him, the tension in the air continuing to pick up, but he was focused more than anything on not making Tucker shut off. "So you’re not sentenced in here for any set time?"

"Means I got sentenced, but they reopened the case."

"They can do that?"

"Apparently, if there's new evidence. Sure, they keep me in here for months first, and _then_ decide..." He got up, abruptly, agitated and clearly done with the conversation. "Doesn't matter. It'll go one of two ways, and that's the bottom line. Either way, I'm here for now."

Wash's immediate instincts were to get to his feet as well — remaining sitting while someone else was standing put him at a distinct disadvantage. But Tucker was hesitating, looking around the closed off cell and the disappointing reminder he had nowhere to go, so Wash stayed at the bunk beds. Tucker scuffed his feet, letting the silence continue on as he retreated into himself for a few moments. Wash gave him his privacy and kept quiet, but he didn’t take his eyes off him, and he was somewhat glad for the reprieve because on the inside his mind was racing, throwing the information around and trying to get something out of it that made sense.

New evidence. That meant a crime. Or did it? It had to be something complex enough to warrant opening it up again, and something that wasn’t clear cut, black and white, because new evidence meant it was morally grey enough for there to be arguments on either side. He believed it, already knew enough about Tucker to think that it would all be complex. It seemed like nothing about Tucker was simple.

"I hate Sundays."

Except, maybe, that.

Wash blinked, turned back to him. Tucker wasn't looking at him, instead leaning up against the back wall, in the relatively small space between the end of the bunk bed and the side wall. Wash moved towards the desk, but didn’t sit on it.

"So I’ve heard," he supplied, twisting his tone to sound dry, and when Tucker glanced at him he offered him a small smile.

It worked, and Tucker relaxed, leaning back against the wall, whatever worries he’d been worked up over leaving him as quickly as they’d come.

Suddenly a wave of familiarity hit him, and he was thrown into a memory of his first time here. After he’d said Tucker’s name — _Lavernius_ , Wash had almost forgotten — and he’d gotten his first genuine reaction out of him, almost started a fight like he had so many times in the span of the time that he’d been here, and before they’d both relaxed, when Tucker had been leaned against the back wall as he was now, looking at him just like he was—

His words echoed in Wash’s head. _"I swear I’m not bipolar."_

Wash couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. Now that he knew a little more about him, that was exactly what he would have expected him to say.

"What’s so funny?" Tucker demanded, and Wash glanced up at him in surprise, his eyes lingering for a few long moments.

"Nothing. Just you and your hatred of Sundays."

"Oh. Well fuck, man, do you blame me? I hate it! You can't sneak out beforehand, and spend the whole day out of cell, because they do headchecks. You're actually literally stuck here."

"I'm sorry," Wash said sincerely, because one thing he did know about Tucker was that he needed the illusion of freedom.

Tucker rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Not like I haven’t had time by myself before."

"Then why are you complaining?"

"Because it’s horrible. There's only so many times a dude can jack off."

"You're joking."

"Of course I am. There's probably no limit."

"That's _not_ what I was—"

The doors buzzed open, and Tucker stared out at the door in relief as Wash flinched back, spinning to face it.

 _"Yes,_ lunch time," he groaned, gesturing to the now open door with no small amount of happiness. "Look at that sight. It's beautiful. Is that not the most beautiful sight you ever saw, Wash?"

They watched a boy walk past and scratch at his armpit, and they turned to each other at the same moment.

"Okay, wait—" Tucker started, but Wash's laughter was already echoing down the halls.

* * *

  
"So," Donut started cheerily, looking between the faces that were gathered around the lunch table. "How’s everybody going? I notice Caboose isn’t here."

"Do you?" Grif asked. " _Do you_ notice that? Wow, how observant of you. It’s almost like you two share a cell!"

Although he was sitting, Donut made a show of putting his hands on his hips. "I don’t appreciate your attitude, mister."

"Well where is he?" Simmons cut in.

"Oh, I don’t actually know. I thought you guys might! Last I saw, Andersmith was talking to him."

"I’m sure he’s fine, then," Grif waved off. "Now shut it, I’m trying to eat."

Simmons pretended to look shocked. "Wow, that’s something new and different. Really changing things up around here."

Grif batted his eyelashes at him as he continued shovelling food into his mouth.

"I see you guys are same old, huh! Sarge, how are you?" Donut continued, unfazed, leaning his elbows delicately onto the table.

"Fine," Sarge grunted.

"How’s A block treating you?" Donut asked, in the same tone of voice, and got a raised eyebrow in response. "That’s cool. Wash? Tucker? Everything cool with you two? Or not cool? Anything warm? Not that that means anything, of course! _Just_ wondering."

The two boys shared a look.

"Uh, yeah?" Tucker asked. "Why wouldn’t it be?"

"Oh, no reason." Donut smiled at them. "Just checking in on all my friends, making sure you’re all doing well."

" _Bullshit_ ," Grif coughed.

"Well it is Wash’s first day locked in a cell with Tucker!" Donut defended, suddenly dropping the act. "I just want to make sure it’s all working out fine!"

"Oh." Simmons thought that over, then nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"More sense then him suddenly take an invested interest in our wellbeing," Grif agreed.

"I care about all my friends equally," Donut denied. When he received several doubtful looks in return, he relented. "I just might be more interested in how Wash and Tucker are doing for my own personal curiosity."

"Oho, wait, what was that?" Tucker put his fork down. "What the hell is that meant to mean?"

"Nothing!"

"Are you saying it’d be anything more than fuckin’ amazing to spend time in a cell with?" Tucker demanded, trying to figure out his angle. Wash was more aware, but he kept quiet, waiting to see where Donut would go with this."I resent that. I'd be an honour to share a cell with." He paused. "Oh, god, do I sound like Sarge?"

"You wish," Sarge said gruffly, and Tucker looked surprised to see him there.

"What’s your point?" Wash finally asked, and everyone glanced at him before turning their gazes to Donut.

Except Grif. "He’s trying to figure out if you two are boning yet," he volunteered, looking bored.

"Grif!" Donut looked distressed. "It’s meant to be a secret!"

"Some secret," Grif scoffed, "it was obvious what you were getting at from space—" He cut himself off abruptly, doing a double take, and looked between Donut and the two boys on the other side of the table. "Oh, shit, is the secret meant to be that you two are boning?"

" _Excuse me?_ "

"No!" Donut cut in. " _Unless_..." he trailed off and side eyed the two of them with excitement.

" _No_ , Donut, we’re not fucking— We're not fucking!"

"Alright, jeesh! I was just asking."

"I mean, can you blame him?" 

Tucker closed his eyes for a brief second before turning to face Grif. "What does _that_ mean?"

"I’m just saying," Grif said, settling back into his chair. "You’re totally whipped."

"Uh, _bro?_ You can’t talk?" Tucker gestured at Simmons, who frowned back at him.

Then, a second later, realised his mistake. Too late.

"Hah!" Grif cried, at the same second Donut let out a gasp.

"So you two _are—"_  he started, pressing his hands to his lips and looking excited.

"Oh, congrats," Simmons nodded.

"No!" Tucker shouted, sitting up straight so quickly he sent himself flying into the table.

"What?" Wash managed, aware that he was equally implicated in Tucker's idiocy. "Hold on, now, just a second—"

"I didn’t mean it like that!"

"That’s not what he was saying—"

Grif let out a low whistle, and they both stopped, glancing at each other before tearing their gazes to meet the rest of the table.

"We’re not gay, dude," Tucker reminded them all, making repetitive stop gestures.

"Of course not," Grif sniggered. "Nobody here is gay. Not me, not Simmons, and especially not Donut."

"I’m _not_ gay, though," Tucker repeated. "And neither’s Wash!"

When silence met his statement, they turned to Wash.

"What?" he asked, when they stared at him expectantly.

"Well? Aren’t you going to defend yourself?" Simmons prompted.

Donut was watching him with a knowing look, and it only grew when Wash just offered a shrug.

"I don’t... know?" he tried, when Simmons’ jaw dropped.

Tucker stared at him. "Are you serious?" 

"No, actually, I take that back. I don’t _care_."

"Hey, that’s more like it," Grif nodded, and there was respect in the look he gave Wash. "That’s something I can understand. Welcome to the club, brother."

"I don’t understand you!" Simmons exclaimed, turning back to Grif in exasperation. "Your sexuality is a part of who you are! You can’t just ignore it, and pretend it doesn’t exist— you have to learn from it, help it define you as a person!"

"You’re only saying that because you’re the only fully gay one here," Grif laughed, and Simmons went bright red.

"Guys! I think you’re missing the point," Donut interrupted, putting his chin in his hands and gazing across the table at Wash.

"Thank you!" Tucker threw his hands up. "I’m not the only one who finds this a little bit weird!"

Everyone’s eyes were suddenly focused on him, and in the following silence he quickly lowered his hands, scrabbling to explain.

"Alright, that’s not what I meant—"

"Really?" Wash asked, somewhat flatly.

Tucker wheeled back to face him. "Really! Like, I don’t care if you’re gay or not, or whatever, I just—"

"Sounds like you care, dude," Grif piped up.

"Why would I care?" Tucker demanded. "I mean, you of all people should know that I’m not—" he broke off there, abruptly, and Grif broke down into muffled laughter, burying his head into his arms on the table top.

"And that’s why I don’t believe you when you tell me you’re not gay," he managed.

"Just stop talking, son," Sarge advised, when Tucker spluttered, looking like the last thing he wanted to be doing was sitting at that table.

"It’s alright, we all know about those times with Grif," Donut took over. "No judgements here!"

"It was one time," Tucker muttered, and Wash’s eyebrows rose, "and we were drunk."

"Hey, maybe that repressed memory ties into why you’re so uncomfortable with gays," Simmons mused.

"I’m _not_ —" Tucker started, then gave up, dropping his head into his hands.

"I’m actually, as much as I hate to admit it, siding with a blue on this one. Not saying I have anything against you guys, but I’m starting to wonder if there’s some sort of _conspiracy—"_ ’

"No," Grif said immediately, the grin dropping from his face. "No, there’s no conspiracy, _no_ there’s no regime, there’s no _agenda,_ just for the love of god, don’t even begin to think that. It’s just how it is. You _know that,_ you’re just starting shit because you feel outnumbered. Which, for the record, is _bullshit._ You’re paranoid."

Sarge grumbled, clearly unimpressed at being so directly and rudely addressed, but unable to argue with it.

Grif sighed. "He looks for scheming in everything."

"Do not," Sarge muttered petulantly.

"You’re afraid we’re plotting against you because some of us were born liking _dick_ —"

"We’re getting off topic!" Donut interrupted again. He drew all their attention to him, and focused on Wash, who was maintaining a cautiously blank expression. "Sarge knows there’s no conspiracy here, so he’s fine with us, right?"

More grumbling, but when Donut cleared his throat, there was a vague agreement. A few seconds of expectant silence passed, and finally, there was a clear " _Yes_ ", followed by " _I just don’t like that Grif’s in on it—"_

"Alright!" Donut clapped his hands together. "He doesn’t care."

"So now the only person who cares is you, Tucker," Grif said, turning back and sounding far too much like Church for Tucker’s comfort.

He growled. "I _don’t_ care. I just—" he cut off to dart a glance at Wash, then hurried on, "I just didn’t expect it, was all."

"Which means you care." Grif leaned back in his chair.

Well aware Wash was watching him, waiting for him to say something, and that everyone’s eyes were focused solely on him, Tucker stammered, tripping over his words.

"No, not in a bad way, just in a, like, ' _Oh I didn’t expect it_ ', and I mean, it’s not like I don’t care." He paused for a second before hurrying on. "Well I don’t not care, but I mean, it’s not really weird— or weird at all! It’s just, I... it..." he ran out of steam, painfully aware that he was making things worse.

"Wow," Grif commented, staring at him. "This is like watching a spaceship crash."

Tucker finally looked back at Wash as he trailed off, and he was shaking his head, almost imperceptibly, the tops of his freckled cheekbones tinted red.

"I think I’m going to go to the bathroom," he declared abruptly, and Tucker watched helplessly as he moved quickly from the room, leaving his tray behind in his haste.

"I don’t think he’ll be back to finish his lunch," Donut pointed out thoughtfully, and Simmons groaned as Grif reached out to slowly pull Wash’s tray over to him.

"Of course not. Tucker just humiliated him."

"What?" He shot around to look at them. " _Him?_ _I_ humiliated _him?"_

"Oh, don’t worry, you humiliated yourself, too. Just, you managed to do it for Wash, as well. Maybe worse."

"Yeah, did you see that?" Sarge agreed. "I think Grif’s description was for once pretty apt, except maybe a little underestimated. More like five spaceships crashing. Or eight."

"Exactly," Simmons continued. "You basically just ruined his coming out!"

"Eh, I could put it at about ten," Donut estimated.

"I wouldn’t call it that," Grif disagreed, glancing at Simmons. "It’s not like he put any thought into it. I perceived it more as Tucker humiliated him by making his awareness of that knowledge awkward. If he hadn’t said anything, nobody would have cared."

Donut nodded. "And now he thinks you hold something against him because he’s sort of gay!"

Tucker sunk lower in his seat.

"Also, he’s probably going to start analysing every interaction you have with each other, for fear of making you uncomfortable!" Donut pulled a sympathetic face. "Man, that’s pretty awkward."

"Will you guys shut up?" Tucker groaned, and leaned his head in his hands.

"On second thoughts," Grif mused, "I’d raise my own estimation to about twenty. Further rising still impending, based on how Tucker deals with this."

" _Deal with it?_ What the fuck makes you think I’m gunna deal with this? That whole thing was so awkward, I plan on living in a hole for the rest of my life."

There was a few seconds of silence.

"I’m sure if you make things up with Wash, he’s got a hole you could live in—"

" _That doesn’t make sense_."

"You’re right," Grif nodded. "There probably isn’t a chance of making things up with him, and that’s a fair point."

" _Grif!_ " Simmons shot him a poisonous look, but Tucker ignored him.

"But I’m _not_ a homophobe! And I really don’t care if he is gay or not!"

"Sure have a funny way of showing it," Sarge said gruffly.

"Yeah, I mean, you never treated us weird when you found out we were gay," Simmons pointed out.

"Because I could care less about you two."

"Well what about me?" Donut tried. "You care about me, right?"

Tucker waved him away in frustration, standing up from the table with a screech of the chair. "Everyone already knew you were gay, Donut."

"Hey! That’s stereotyping."

"It’s true, though," Simmons pointed out.

"Yeah, I know. I just wanted to bring in some dramatics of my own."

Grif scoffed. "Why? Not like we don’t already have enough." His eyes followed Tucker as the lithe boy deposited his and Wash’s trays at the counter. "Where’re you going?" he shouted after him, ignoring the heads that turned his way.

"Where the fuck do you think?" Tucker yelled back. "I’m gunna say sorry to Wash. Fix this, before I fuck it up any worse."

The reds watched him exit through the double doors and disappear from sight.

"Well that’s nice of him," Donut nodded. "I’m sure that’s all it’ll take. I mean, it’s not like he was rude to him, or anything. He just didn’t know how to deal with it. As long as he doesn’t treat him any differently, I’m sure it’ll all be okay."

"Yeah, that’s nice," Grif dismissed. "Man, they always have so much drama going on. I’m exhausted. Come on, Simmons, let’s go relax the old fashioned way."

"A foot massage?" Simmons tried hopefully.

"I was thinking some other type of massage, involving my dick, in an empty classroom around here somewhere."

"Wow," Simmons muttered, as they got up to put their trays away. "So romantic."

* * *

 "Okay, you got this, Tucker. How about, _hey, Wash, sorry I came off like a raging douchebag?_ No, that’s too simple. What about, _I know I sounded like a fucking asshole, and—_ " Tucker cut off with an exasperated groan, his steps speeding up as he walked, annoyance seeping into his otherwise worried demeanour. "No, that’s no good. Alright, okay." He cleared his throat, the sound echoing off the otherwise empty hallway. " _Hey, I didn’t mean to come across like a homophobic bag of dicks —_ oh god, _no_."

He thought hard for a long second, rounding another corner. " _I know I’m kind of a dick, but_ —"

"Leave."

Tucker stopped in his tracks. "Woah. That was so bad I could almost hear Wash’s voice. That’s kind of sad, actually." He kept walking, managing another two steps, and if he’d resumed his attempts at figuring out what he could say, he wouldn’t have heard the voice — muffled, but painfully distinct — reach his ears.

_"I think not."_

There were several long seconds while Tucker stared into the middle distance, his world shuddering as the voice forced itself into his mind, asserting itself as  _familiar,_ and not just  _familiar_ but _bad_. Another few beats and he regained himself, lurching forward, reaching out with both his hands towards the door nearest to him. All thoughts of the scene from before flew from his mind as his hands closed around the handle. He jiggled it, but it was locked.

Panic hit him hard for a second —  _a lot goes on behind closed doors, god didn’t he know that —_  but then a voice drifted out from the end of the corridor and he realised they weren’t in there.

They were out here.

A second later, he was at the end of the corridor, and there they were, so close that Tucker could have run into them if he hadn’t stopped himself short. Wash, and  _Locus_.

Wash stared at him, expression blank except for an almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. Locus was looking back towards him, keeping his body angled towards Washington but following Tucker with his eyes. The cold, calculating gaze crept over him and Tucker shivered, and it took all his willpower to make himself edge past Locus to stand beside Wash. It was instinct to stand himself at Wash’s side, but Washington didn’t shift his expression from completely blank even in light of the new turn of events.

Internally, he was beyond tense. With Tucker's arrival, things had just gone from bad to worse. He wanted to ask what the hell Tucker was doing here, but it was clear that he'd followed him. He wanted to ask why he'd forced himself past Locus, but he'd seen a clear look of determination alongside the fear that had been evident in his eyes. Even though it wasn’t high on his list of shit to figure out, Wash wondered why he forced himself to do that when he could have kept his distance.

Then he was at his side and Wash breathed a silent sigh of relief, because while Tucker was moving past, Locus had been leaning towards him in a way that was impossible to miss. In turn, Wash had tensed even further, more than he’d been aware was possible, ready to counter any move Locus could make before he landed a hand on Tucker. Neither of them relaxed, but the air of immediate tension had merged into the background.

"What the fuck’s going on?" Tucker asked, voice snappy and higher than it usually was. "Why the fuck are _you_ here, and where’s your bullshit buddy? I know he’s around here somewhere."

For a split second, Wash was impressed, because it must have taken more bravery than Tucker had to address Locus so brashly. Locus regarded him coldly, unimpressed, and Wash wished he knew what the hell was going on. All he knew was that he’d been walking, mind focused on the scene he’d just escaped from, when from behind him—

_"David Washington. I knew it was only a matter of time."_

And funnily enough, of all the thoughts that went through his mind, _you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me_ was the first to cross it.

Then his natural responses fell into place and he’d spun, prepared for whatever could be thrown at him, the only thing leaving his lips being an immediate—

_"Who the fuck are you?"_

And a tall, incredibly well built and dark skinned boy had walked towards him like it was nothing, like Wash wasn’t a hairs breadth away from attacking him. The hallways were thankfully wide, so just as Tucker had managed to keep _just enough_ distance between he and Locus, so had Wash, who’d backed into the wall shamelessly and focused on keeping his space.

The conversation they’d had in the space of half a minute, and consisted of very little.

_"How do you know my name? Who are you?"_

He knew he was right to feel suspicious when all he’d earned in response was a curious but calculating tilt of the other boy’s head.

_"My name is Locus. I’m very interested in you."_

And that had been all Wash wanted to hear. Interest in him meant trouble, and he didn’t need to be a genius to figure out he was getting into deep water.

 _"Leave,"_ he’d commanded, hoping to avoid starting anything.

_"I think not."_

Because apparently this guy didn’t have a setting that involved not being creepy. And now he was regarding Tucker with a facade of disinterest, but Wash could see the look in his eyes, the glint of annoyance that looked like it ran deeper. It was directed at Tucker, and that set off alarm bells in Wash’s mind, but before he could speak up, Locus responded, barely missing a beat.

"This is hardly your business," he intoned, a hint of coldness to his voice. Tucker opened his mouth to say something in response, undoubtedly rude and brash, but before he could get a word out Locus leaned in, ever so slightly, and the corner of his mouth tilted up. "Lavernius."

Even from his position to the side and slightly behind him, Wash could see the depth of Tucker’s reaction.

He reeled back, and for a second every expression on his face was obvious, every emotion he felt flicking across it like an open book. Wash felt protectiveness surge through him, because whatever that meant wasn’t good, and it meant that whoever the hell Locus was, he knew something that had the potential to hurt Tucker. So without hesitation, Wash stepped forward, prepared to draw Locus’ attention away from Tucker, to keep him from seeing that moment of vulnerability, but Locus was already staring at him. It didn’t look like he’d even glanced at Tucker.

Which didn’t make sense, because why would he do that if he wasn’t interested in gauging Tucker’s reaction?

It didn’t cross his mind that Locus was gauging _his._

Half a second later, Wash’s attention was drawn back to Tucker, because out of the corner of his eye he could see him gearing up, his lips pulling back over his teeth in a snarl that shocked Washington as much as it did told him that he needed to intercept, _now,_ because he might not have any idea what was going on but he did know that Tucker didn’t have a chance if he threw himself at Locus.

But holding him back was out of the question, because Tucker’s aversion to being touched wouldn’t fall to the wayside, especially not now, so he stepped boldly in front of him and glanced back over his shoulder.

 _"Tucker,’_ "he said, almost a murmur, but it was enough to still the other boy.

"He—" Tucker started, then cut himself off, his eyes unfocusing for a long second before focusing again. "He fucking—"

He cut himself and took a step forward, aware of just how smug Locus was, just how lost Wash looked, how he was watching him, unmoving, confusion and concern battling for dominance on his face. For a split second, Tucker’s anger redirected at him, and he saw Wash realise it, saw the shock flash across his features. It was enough to make Tucker pause again, surprised him enough to stop in his tracks, because Wash—

 _Wash_ —

—didn’t know.

Wash didn’t know.

Had no idea that Tucker would react like that, or why, and he realised that was exactly why Locus had done it. They tore their gazes away from one another when the sound of Locus chucking filled the otherwise silent corridor.

"Like a poorly trained dog," Locus said, teeth bared in a dangerous smile, but his tone was infused with a mild element of disgust.

"Shut your mouth," Wash snapped, and the smile fell from Locus’ lips.

He was aware of Tucker, still brimming with a sudden anger that Washington couldn’t determine the source of and didn’t have the time to figure out now.

Locus’ eyes were cold. " _Don't_ speak to me like that."

"Don’t speak to us full stop," Wash ground out in response. "Turn around, and _walk away."_

Locus cocked his head but said nothing, and Wash rolled his shoulders, as much as a warning as it was a clear message. He was ready to fight, and he wouldn’t hesitate. Everything about him screamed defense, from his shift forward onto the balls of his feet to his very specific position in front of Tucker.

His actions spoke louder than his words, and Locus got an inkling. There was certainly more to this. Perhaps the situation required reanalysis — but after Locus found out as much as he could.

Very specifically, Locus let his eyes drift to Tucker. Within a second, Wash had stepped forward, closing the gap between them to nearly with reaching distance, and he only stopped when Locus refocused his gaze on him. From behind him, Tucker stared defiantly out, jaw clenched _. Emotional._

Locus wanted to laugh. It had taken one word, but he’d deserved it. He shouldn’t have been here. It should have been just Locus and Washington. Yet, like Locus had any interest in the boy behind him, like he was the reason Locus had come, Wash stood himself in front of Tucker regardless.

"Interesting," Locus mused, and Wash stiffened.

"What is?" he bit out, but Locus offered no response.

It was interesting, _very_ interesting, and it told Locus exactly what he wanted to know. Seemingly unprompted, Locus leaned back, relaxing his body and dropping out of his primary fighting position. It wasn’t as obvious as Wash’s — he kept his fists lowered, but close in front of him, yet it was recognisable. It was the subtler clues that told Wash that this was someone he didn’t want to fight, and they both knew it. Because even without being obvious in his actions, Locus had a very distinct aura of _threat._

When his movements had registered with the boy directly in front of him, Locus spoke. "I think leaving may be best."

Wash stiffened again at the agreement. They locked eyes for a moment, trying to read each other, but neither of them gave anything away.

"Then go," Wash said finally, jerking his chin in the direction over Locus’ shoulder.

Another long few heavy seconds passed, and after what felt like an eternity, Locus tensed in preparation of backing away, shifting himself towards the exit. Wash watched him impatiently, but before a single step could be taken, Tucker spoke up from behind him. He summoned up the courage to step to Wash’s side, and Wash wished he’d stay behind him. Any of Locus’ attention focused on Tucker made Wash’s skin crawl.

"But we don’t know what the fuck he wanted," Tucker spoke up, voice demanding and full of emotion.

Wash wanted to spare a look at him, but he was still locking eyes with Locus, and he refused to give in first.

In the end, Locus was the one to break eye contact, but he shifted his gaze to rest heavily on Tucker and Wash didn’t feel any better for it. In fact, he would have preferred it if he’d kept his gaze on him, and the nearly imperceptible shift to Locus’ upper lip told Wash that he knew, and he’d done it on purpose.

"What the fuck does he want with you?" Tucker pressed, when nobody volunteered an answer.

Wash wished he just _wouldn’t._ The more he spoke, the longer Locus stayed, evidently interested in seeing what answer Wash would provide.

Teeth grit together, he narrowed his eyes at the boy standing opposite. "I don’t know," he admitted. Then, before either of them could say anything, "And I’m not interested in finding out. _Go."_

The last part was very specifically directed at Locus, who shook his head twice, slowly. "I’m disappointed in you. I thought it would be obvious."

When Wash said nothing, knowing that his silence would prompt Locus into leaving or explaining, Locus sighed. Wash noted that he wasn’t all that he seemed, because if he was, he would have left. He held some degree of vested interest here, but Wash didn’t know what.

"You attacked two of my associates during your early stages here," Locus explained, voice cold and devoid of emotion. "I care little for them, but I am obligated, none the less, to inquire into the incident."

"Inquire into the incident," Wash repeated, slowly. "And  _I_ attacked them, supposedly."

"Nothing more than that," Locus affirmed, and flicked his eyes back to Tucker, who was glaring at him with what looked like every bit of emotion he had. His suspicions, had he any doubt left for them, were confirmed. "Unfortunately, it seems your guard dog has little interest in allowing such affairs to occur without meddling in them."

 _"Fuck you,_ " Tucker shot out, simmering, shaking.

"Just as I expected. Disappointing," he repeated, as if either of them cared, and though he didn’t address anyone in particular, they both knew he was talking to Wash. "I had hoped that you would associate yourself with more fitting individuals, instead of such contemptible beings."

The two boys hesitated, sharing a split second glance before looking back at him.

"Fuck you," Tucker offered again, this time uncertainly.

"You barely even know when you’re being insulted." Locus shook his head, and his gaze made it’s way back to Wash. "I expected better from _you_ , but that stands as my mistake. I should have known better. Literacy, after all, isn’t your strong point."

Wash froze.

He heard Tucker spit out another " _G_ _o fuck yourself, asshole,"_  which must have been on principle alone because the depth of the remark would have been lost on him. Wash wasn’t listening either way — he was caught seconds in the past, on the sly insult that held more weight than first met the eye and only Locus and himself knew the meaning behind.

The insult itself was elementary, and he didn’t care about it in the slightest — didn’t care that he was illiterate, or even that anyone knew. He cared, however, about what it meant: that somehow, Locus knew something about him that practically nobody did.

His illiteracy wasn’t on his record. There was no way they could have known about it. He’d never told anyone. The only incident surrounding it was with the guard, when he’d been unable to fill in the form, but that had been in private holding cells and nobody had been around to hear it. Unless the guard had gone out of his way to have it reported, which would mean investigations into the situation that had happened on the day and the admittance that he’d let Wash go without holding him for either information, or to fill in the report for him.

It was unlikely.

Which left him with the question: how did Locus know? And why did he try to use it against him? Wash could already tell that he preferred subtlety over more direct means, or he would have done whatever it was he’d pulled Wash aside to do regardless of Tucker’s interruption — he’d essentially cornered him in a relatively empty part of the building, and it hadn’t been accidental. Working on that basis, it meant that it hadn’t been a petty jab at his lack of literacy skills, but something more. A threat? Had he intentionally alluded to the fact that he knew more than he was letting on? Or was he eager to show his knowledge, and he hadn’t meant to give it away? With an almost violent shake of the head, he pushed the thought away, focusing on the situation at hand.

Locus was watching him, his face expressionless.

Waiting.

He became aware of Tucker’s eyes on him, too, and he realised he’d missed something, but he didn’t care.

"I think it’s time you leave," he said again, voice like ice, and there was no room for argument in his tone. He stepped forward, and this time there was no second chances. It was down to this: fight or flight.

Locus stood for a long moment, analysing him, before he stepped away. Almost painfully slowly, he reached the intersection to the other corridor, and only then did he turn. He eyed Wash’s tense form almost appraisingly, the tiniest hint of a smile pulling at his lip.

"This won’t mark our last meeting, Washington," he called over his shoulder.

As he disappeared from sight, neither of them saw him finger the sharp edge of the blade that was hidden in his sleeve.


	12. looking at you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to thank like every single fucking person who's sticking with this fic, even if you don't comment or kudos or whatever, because i'm sure youre out there and i love you all. super shout out to the amazing people who provide the lovely comments here that motivate me to get going, to those who let me bounce ideas off them and helped me get through this writers block, and to the beyond wonderful people who create things for this fic - art, music and even more fics.  
> \- you should definitely check out all the amazing stuff! 
> 
> thank you so much. and, as usual, find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! <3

Silence fell almost immediately following Locus’ departure. Both boys stood frozen, staring out at the hallway that he'd had disappeared down, and nearly a minute passed before Tucker broke the stillness, shaking his head and burying his face in his hands.

"You know how I joked about you being a magnet for trouble?" he started, and Wash wanted to hush him, to stop him from talking when he just wanted to think everything through. "Yeah, in retrospect, I wasn’t joking. I mean, honestly," he laughed, dryly, no humour in his tone, "I leave you alone for all of three minutes, and you get that asshole on your tail? Being all creepy, fucking threatening you?"

"Tucker," Wash said, quietly.

"What? I’m serious. It must be a talent, I swear. It’s like you’re asking for it. You’ve got some big beacon above your head that says _assholes come find me_ , or something."

"Are you done?"

"I don’t get it." Tucker pushed away from the wall and faced him fully, gesturing up and down him almost angrily.

"Don’t get what?" Wash asked, impulsively, then regretted the words once they’d left his lips.

"You! This— I don’t see it! I look at you, and I see your blonde fucking hair, your thousands of stupid freckles—"

_"Tucker—"_

"—your dumb eyes that I can’t even tell what colour they are, like grey or some shit, and that weird scar through your eyebrow—" Wash was staring at him, and Tucker licked his suddenly dry lips. "What I _don’t_ see is someone that I would want to go out of my way to fuck with, so how is it you manage to get into trouble every fucking time I leave you alone?"

"I can’t help it." Wash’s voice was stiff, almost as tension filled as his shoulders, and the way he held himself was unlike anything Tucker had seen when it was just the two of them before. But he was looking at Tucker peculiarly, wondering, his gaze sharp and seeing and Tucker wanted to wilt under it. Instead, he stood taller. 

"How many times is this?" he demanded. "Three? In barely twice as many days? You got jumped the first day. You fucking _hit_ _Donut—"_

"You said you—"

"I know what I said," he snapped, and barrelled on. "You get jumped, you attack Donut, and now you have motherfucking _Locus_ cornering you?"

"It could have happened to anyone," Wash responded automatically, but they both knew it wasn’t true.

_"David Washington. I knew it was only a matter of time."_

He couldn’t pretend it was accidental if he’d tried.

"But it wasn’t. Locus came for you."

"You keep saying his name like I should understand what it means," Wash shot back tersely.

Tucker gestured to the hallway he’d gone down, ignoring the boy who shot them a weird look as he hurried past. "Was that whole thing not enough to give you the idea that it’s bad? I thought you were all fucking big and talented at reading people, and it doesn’t come much clearer fucking cut than that!"

"I am. I can tell he’s bad news, Tucker, I don’t need you explaining it to me—"

"Then _why_ is he interested in you?"

"I don’t know," Wash said, slow and even, and it made Tucker back up a step, before he shook his head and stepped forward boldly, gaining the ground he’d lost and more.

"He doesn’t go around approaching everyone," he pushed, and Wash’s hackles raised at the accusatory tone to his voice. "There’s gotta be a reason."

"What are you saying?"

"Exactly what you’re fucking hearing, that Locus and his asshole friends are looking at _you_."

"And what do you want me to do about that, Tucker?" Wash finally snapped. "Because I don’t know why—"

"Bullshit," Tucker shot, and Wash looked stunned for a second before he covered it, his expression falling into a carefully constructed blank facade. "He’s only interested in about three things, and none of them are good!"

"I’m sorry, is there something you’re not understanding here? _He_ followed _me_ , Tucker. He followed _me_. He said practically nothing before you turned up, and nothing that he did say was any help to me in the slightest. Now if you’re done accusing me of whatever the hell you’re accusing me of, I’d like to leave. If you recall, I was walking this way because of _you_."

It was Tucker’s turn to pull back, face twisting in an expression of surprise, then an emotion Wash didn’t have time to identify before his face fell into resignation and just like that, all the aggression left his body. He used the wall to lean against, avoiding Wash’s gaze by staring at the floor. It wasn’t so easy for Wash to untense. He was brimming with adrenaline and a mixture of emotions, including a burning aftertaste of fear and anger and something  _sharp_ that ached when he looked at Tucker.

"Right," Tucker said, quietly. "Look—"

"It’s fine," came the response, stiff, and so forced that Tucker didn’t bother responding to it.

"I just..." Tucker started, before he gave up, bringing his hands up to run them through his hair in frustration.

A noise almost akin to a growl escaped him as he clearly didn’t find any of the words he was searching for. Automatically, Wash stiffened, surprised, but he knew it wasn’t directed at him. For the first time in a while, he let himself watch Tucker openly, unabashed even as the other boy didn’t realise. It was several seconds before he even glanced Wash’s way, and then he didn’t even let their eyes meet before he dropped his gaze again and began pulling at his dreads once more.

When he lifted both arms to pull the dreads further back, his left was always kept a little further down than his right. Like he didn’t want to lift it too far, or maybe he couldn’t. It was — _something_ , and Wash didn't know why he was seeing it now except maybe he was meant to. 

"I didn’t mean to make it sound like it was your fault," Tucker said, quietly and in a rush, and broke into his thoughts. "Like it was your fault that he was following you. It’s not. It's just, it’s bad news. He’s bad fucking news."

"Right." Wash watched him carefully.

"But If you say you have no idea what he wanted you for, then I believe you. I just don’t trust him."

Wash didn’t say anything, and after a moment of silence Tucker glanced at him. He tried to catch his eye but Tucker lowered his head as quickly as he’d lifted it, mouthing something. Wash’s eyebrows shot up. "What was that?"

"I said he’s bad news," Tucker repeated, shaking his head at the ground.

It was obvious by now there was something more going on. "You hold history with him," Wash said, carefully, less a question than a statement.

Tucker’s head shot up in surprise. "I — no. No, not really. Nothing more than usual. But you only have to have shared a cell with Felix to know how bad Locus can be. They’re practically inseparable, and god knows where one goes the other follows, so it’s probably only a matter of time..." He cut himself off, aware of Wash’s curious gaze on him. "What?"

"I didn’t know you shared a cell with Felix."

Tucker shut his mouth abruptly, then opened it again. "Before I got stuck with Church," he said uncomfortably. "He— look, doesn’t matter. But trust me. I saw enough then of what Locus is about to know that this isn’t a good sign."

Before Wash could press any further, Tucker looked up, meeting his eyes. He reflected Wash’s concern back at him, but he held more than enough of his own, and Wash realised just how worried he was. It surprised him.

"Just trust me. Keep away from Locus."

"I intend to," Wash said, somewhat hesitantly.

"Good. I don’t want you mixing with them."

Wash wanted to ask who _they_ were, aside from Locus, aside from _Felix,_  but he felt like the conversation was dragging on too long. He was tired, and as the adrenaline faded from his system he didn’t like the fact that he’d reached the point of arguing over nothing. Especially with Tucker.

"Alright," he sighed, rubbing at his temples. "Let’s go. I don’t like being here, it’s too open."

"But..." Tucker started, and Wash was forced to stop in his tracks and turn back to face him. Tucker was rubbing at one arm, scratching at the skin hidden under his long sleeved undershirt.

"But what, Tucker?" Wash prompted impatiently, when he didn’t finish his sentence.

Tucker looked hesitant, unsure. "Never mind."

Wash licked his lips and sighed. "I just want to get us out of here. We can talk in the cell, alright?"

"Right. Yeah."

"Then let’s get back."

He started walking, and this time, Tucker walked with him.

He realised, somehow, that the Locus incident had slipped his mind. Only for a few brief moments, granted, but nonetheless, it hadn’t been his number one priority. Now that he was making his way back with Tucker at his side, he was suddenly suspicious of every boy they passed. He was also painfully aware of Tucker’s proximity to everyone that they walked by, but it wasn’t until he edged Tucker a little further sideways than necessary to avoid brushing against two boys walking their way that Tucker confronted him.

"Okay, I get that you’re paranoid now, but this is ridiculous," he said, coming to a stop in the middle of the hallway.

Wash was forced to pause once more. "What?" he said, even though he knew what Tucker was referring to.

"You just went out of your way to keep like, two extra feet of distance between us and them." 

"So? What’s your point?"

"That was Bitters and Palomo! We _know_ them!" Tucker cried, jabbing a finger at the two boys, who turned around at the sound of their names.

"Well I’m sorry," Wash returned, "I’m just being cautious. I apologise if that inconveniences you, Tucker."

"It inconveniences me when I get a face full of wall because you want that precious extra space!"

"Two feet can be the difference between getting cut, and getting stabbed."

"Yeah right," Tucker scoffed, and Bitters and Palomo shared a look, before they turned back around to watch them.

"I think I would know, Tucker," Wash said, almost childishly.

"Know how to be paranoid, maybe."

"Call it what you will. Does my consideration for our safety bother you? Is it too much for you?"

Tucker looked taken aback. "Is this about earlier? Because of the gay thing?" Wash looked stubbornly away. "It is!" Tucker accused him, but then he faltered, remembering he was the one at fault. "Right. Yeah, I guess that’s fair. I did come across like kind of a dick."

This gave Wash pause, and he turned back, angling himself so he was facing Tucker. "Tucker," he said, slowly, warily. "Look, I—"

"Listen," Tucker cut in, hurriedly, "I wanted to tell you that if you’re gay, that’s cool. I’m totally fine with it."

"Does it matter?" Wash sighed. "We don’t really need this conversation right now, Tucker."

"Yes we do!"

"You do."

"Fine, whatever. _I_ do. Even though you just brought it up."

When Wash’s eyebrows shot up, and he opened his mouth to argue, Tucker shook himself to get back on track and barrelled on. "I just don’t want you thinking I’m a piece of shit! Alright, I might be, sometimes," he amended, when Wash arched an eyebrow at him, "but like. Not about this."

"It’s important to you that I don’t get the wrong message about this," Wash said after a moment.

"I guess. I mean, well, yeah. I guess."

"Doesn’t that speak enough for itself?"

"Does it? Just give me like, five seconds to explain."

"Tucker, I left so that you wouldn’t embarrass yourself any further," Wash interrupted, looking around uncomfortably at the open hallway around them. Bitters and Palomo were still standing there, but instead of watching them they were caught up in their own conversation, Palomo jabbing his arm down the corridor in the opposite direction and Bitters mid sentence.

He glanced back and watched as Tucker paused, thinking over that information, before he proceeded to scrunch his face up at him.  

"Huh?"

Wash suppressed a sigh. "You were embarrassing yourself. Yes, I was embarrassed, but for you, not because of you. It’s an important difference." He stopped, reconsidering. "Alright, I was a little embarrassed because of you. Grif was right, it _was_ like watching a space ship crash land."

"I get it," Tucker cut him off, looking annoyed. "Anyway, you’re saying that you were doing me a favour by leaving?"

"Well, no, not so much, I just— I didn’t want you to say anything you’d regret. I know you had no ill intention."

"But I totally fucked it all up! If I were you, I would have kicked my ass."

Abruptly, Wash laughed. Before Tucker could demand to know what was funny, Wash tilted his head down the hallway, and at the unspoken request they both began walking, aware that they’d lost some track of time. When Tucker glanced at him, he could see Wash was thinking it over, trying to decide on a response. He blew out an impatient breath and waited.

"I’m very sure," Wash started, almost cautiously, "that if you had a problem with something like that, you would have brought it up by now. Your best friend, after all, is Grif." He arched a brow quickly and looked away, letting it speak for itself.

"And you," Tucker added, quickly.

"Right, so— Excuse me?"

"And you."

"Oh. I, uh." Wash blinked at him, and Tucker stared earnestly back. "Thank you. The feeling is, well, mutual."

Tucker didn’t respond, and silence reigned for several seconds. Wash shrugged, prepared to let the conversation finish there. Then Tucker blurted out, "I’m sort of gay too."

They both stopped walking, Wash because Tucker did, and Tucker because he needed to try and gauge Wash’s reaction. Several seconds passed by in silence before it was broken by Tucker nervously continuing to talk.

"I mean, with the whole Grif thing, hell no, like, major regret, but I mean, I know enough to know by now that I’m probably a little bit, not entirely _straight,_ I guess you could say, and—"

Wash inclined his head to look at him peculiarly, and Tucker cut himself off. 

"You know, one of the first things I knew about you was that you ramble when you’re nervous," Wash said, softly. "And that you chew at your lip the whole time."

"I do?"

He nodded. "You’re doing it right now."

Self consciously, Tucker stopped, and it was replaced instead with a half embarrassed smile of his own. More seconds passed in silence, and it took Tucker too long to realise that Wash’s eyes were focused on his lips. Following that came the immediate realisation of how close together they were standing. He could almost feel Wash’s body heat, and he made the mistake of glancing down to gauge the space between them. When he looked back up, he swayed closer, and Wash’s hands immediately darted out to steady him, closing themselves around his forearms. He didn’t flinch away, and Wash didn’t let go. 

Almost imperceptibly, Tucker’s feet shuffled closer, and Wash noticed, his gaze flicking down to their feet for a millisecond before flashing back up to Tucker’s face.

Washington was suddenly aware of how hard his heart was pumping.

"I don’t think your freckles are stupid," Tucker said in a rush.

Wash nervously licked his lips. "No?"

Tucker shook his head, still meeting his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something else when, from down the hallway, came a long, drawn out wolf whistle.

"Lover boys!" Palomo called, giggling, and Bitters stuck the tips of his pinky fingers in his mouth and wolf whistled again.

They sprang apart, not quite sure why.

"When did you two get so close?" Bitters called, nudging Palomo. "Oh, wait, don’t answer that. We don’t want all the details." He waggled his eyebrows.

"You fuckers," Tucker said mildly, trying to register what had happened. "I thought you left."

"What?" Palomo demanded. "That’s mean. And we were standing here the whole time! You started walking but you only made it like, eight steps down the hall."

"Tough room," Bitters commented, pretending to pull at his loose shirt collar. "You’d think they’d be a little more friendly, considering how friendly they are with each other."

Palomo gave him a high five, and when they turned back, they were grinning like it was the best joke they’d made in years.

"What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

Wash struggled to come up with a response, and as if he could sense how embarassed he was, Tucker cut in without missing a beat.

"Hey Bitters, remember that time you told me Palomo sucked your dick?"

Palomo’s jaw dropped, and two beats passed before he whirled on Bitters, who looked between him and Tucker in shock. "You _what?"_

"Uh, wh—  _no_ , I would _not—"_ Bitters scrambled to deny it, but it was too late. Palomo started hitting him, whacking at him ineffectually with open fists on Bitters’ shoulders and chest. " _H_ _ey!_ Palomo, stop! _Ow!_ " He held his hands out to restain him from landing anymore hits, and it was Tucker’s loud laughter that drew his attention back.

"How’s karma taste, asshole?" 

"Tucker," Wash chastised, but it came automatically. He was fighting, unsuccessfully, a smile of his own.

Bitters finally succeeded in restraining Palomo, holding onto his wrists and angling him away to prevent him from landing anymore hits. "Palomo, can you just—"

"You _told_ him about that?" Palomo demanded, and Tucker’s jaw dropped.

"Wait, that actually happened? I thought he was just talking himself up!"

"Did you tell him about our special night, too?" Palomo continued, his voice shrill.

Tucker looked gleeful. "Oh, this is too good."

Despite the fact that he was now whispering, his voice managed to regain Bitters attention, and he spun back to face him and focus his full attention on Tucker. "Palomo, baby, I’m gunna be right back. I’ve just gotta murder Tucker first, alright?" he said, angling his head towards the boy in his arms.

"But—"

"I’m defending your honour. Trust me. I’ll be back."

Palomo considered it for another second before he lowered his arms. "Alright."

Tucker’s smile dropped. "Uh oh."

Bitters clicked his tongue. "You’re fucking dead, Tucker," he said brightly, and began advancing on them, moving Palomo to the side with gentle ease.

"Time to go," Tucker yelped, and clicked to get Wash’s attention as he began retreating.

"Where?" Wash asked, even while he began following immediately.

"Away from him!"  

Wash glanced between him, then back to Bitters, who was nearly in arms reach. That was all it took, and Wash was speeding up, quickly gaining the ground between he and Tucker and closing it completely. He glanced over his shoulder to the sight of a swearing Bitters chasing after them, and Tucker’s laughter filled the hallway, clashing against the tirade of insults Bitters was spitting in his wake. Wash ignored it, and focused on not running into any of the other few kids who still remained in the corridors leading back to the cells.

It wasn’t until two corridors down that he looked back over his shoulder, and Bitters was nowhere in sight.

"He wouldn’t have done shit even if he had caught us," Tucker laughed, in between pants of breath. "He’d hit as hard as Palomo. Speaking of, did you see Palomo’s face?" He broke down into another fit of laughter as they entered their cell block, heading towards their room.

"He didn’t look happy," Wash agreed, but he looked hesitant. "That wasn’t anything that shouldn’t have been said, was it?"

Tucker looked offended. "Dude. You underestimate me. I may be a dick, but I’m not that much of a dick. He’s not actually angry. Well, he’s probably a bit pissed, but he’ll get over it. Anyway, he totally deserved it. He sees two dudes standing close to one another in a corridor and what does he assume? I think he’s projecting, if you ask me."

Wash nodded, slowly, and didn’t say anything. For a long moment, the scene from the hallway played on his mind, the feel of Tucker’s skin under his hand, the warmth emanating out, his eyes staring earnestly up at him. He wasn’t sure whether he'd imagined it, then, and some of the moment seemed to lose its magic.

Tucker wasn’t looking his way, instead poking his head back out to observe the stream of kids returning to their individual cells. He clicked his tongue. "I think we made it just in time, dude. Palomo and Bitters better move their asses, or they’re gunna get stuck outside. I bet that’ll be fun."

"Will they make it in time?" Wash asked, concern winning out over his other thought processes temporarily.

"They’ll be fine. They’re not stupid. Getting caught out of your cell during headcount means lockdown, and they wouldn’t risk that. Besides, they probably want to get back to their cell so they can bang." He paused, snickering, then he stopped. "They probably think the same about us."

Wash was suddenly very red, and he was quick to move past Tucker and further into the cell. "The important thing is we’re back in our room, and safe," he decided.

"Yeah, no shit," Tucker laughed. "Man, you’re weird today."

"It’s been a weird day. I think I really am ready for it to be over." He climbed onto his bed and curled onto his side, his eyes slipping shut almost instantly.

"You don’t want to talk?" Tucker asked, hesitantly. Wash shook his head. "Oh. Yeah, that’s cool." Tucker chewed at his lip, and after several more moments had passed, he tried again. "But I mean, it is only lunch time."

"I’m tired, and I’ve got a lot to think about."

"Like what?" Tucker asked immediately, perking up.

Wash didn’t even open his eyes. "The Locus situation. You’re right, there was a reason he followed me, and I’ve got to find out what it is. He said it was because of the two boys that jumped me, but something... something didn’t seem right."

He trailed off into his thoughts, and he didn’t see Tucker deflate.

"Yeah, okay," Tucker said, defeated, and slumped on the chair at the desk, still gazing mournfully Wash’s way.

Wash pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes still closed. "Stop staring at me. I won’t be able to think if I know you’re watching me."

Tucker’s face split into a grin. "I guess I have that effect on people, huh?"

There was a second while he saw Wash processing that. Then, quietly, he began to laugh.

"Still got it," Tucker grinned, kicking back on the desk, pleased he’d elicited such a reaction.

Wash laughing was still an uncommon occurrence, and it remained contagious — even Tucker had to stop himself from laughing, encouraged by the sound of it. There was something about it that made him want to hear it again and again. So, Tucker being Tucker, he tried. Distracting Wash from the Locus incident was difficult, but it was worth it.

For Wash, the direction that the day had abruptly turned had failed to completely remove the warmth of his memories from earlier, the press of Tucker’s palm against his, the feel of his fingers between Wash’s own as they’d linked hands —

— it stayed with him, playing on his mind even when he’d been inches from Tucker in the middle of the hallway only an hour later, and only minutes ago. The contentment he’d felt sitting side by side with Tucker as they’d talked earlier overshadowed the following awkwardness of lunch, though not the unease that flowed through him when he thought about being cornered by Locus, and not the way Tucker had come at him with a tone full of accusations.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. An ominous sense filled the air, as if lingering from Locus’ presence, and he knew Tucker felt it too. No matter what they did, neither of them could seem to shake it.


	13. creeping toxicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update that didn't take a month! not even two weeks, which is good enough for me <3 
> 
> check out the incredible stuff that's been made for this fic - it's honestly stunning to me. the latest is what's shaping up to be a chaptered side fic, focusing on doc/donut, in an au of the au where doc's part of the prison med staff. pretty fuckin rad.  
> thank you again to everyone who reads this, and leaves incredible comments, because i go through them when i'm stuck or having trouble, and it inspires me to no end, so thank you all <3 
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! <3

"School today," Grif commented the next morning, with a mouthful of food. "I can’t wait for Tucker to not ditch with me again because Wash wants to go."

"I can’t wait for you to quit bitching," Sarge chimed in, "but we all seem to hope for things that will never happen."

There was a brief silence, broken only by Simmons sighing and putting his head into his hands.

Sarge looked around in surprise. "Oh, are we not wishing wistfully aloud? I just thought that with all Grif’s complaining, everyone else could have a turn."

"If I were hoping for things that would never happen," Grif said thoughtfully, "it would mean that Tucker would start ditching with me again. Which isn’t what’s happening."

"Well I’m glad you’re not bitter," Donut said cheerfully, and proceeded to spoon more porridge into his own mouth.

"He _was_  being bitter, Donut," Simmons sighed. "And he’s only brave enough to say it at all because Wash and Tucker aren’t here yet."

Caboose looked around. "That is why this side of the table seemed so cold," he whispered.

Donut was too busy frowning to notice. "Oh. Well how was I meant to know?" Before anyone could respond, he looked up and his frown vanished. "Oh, hey Tucker, hey Wash! What are you guys up to?"

"Yo," Tucker greeted, aiming for smooth but missing by a mile. Wash was busy glancing over his shoulder, double checking the room and the faces behind him.

Caboose looked delighted. "I have friends again! Tucker! Wash! I have missed you."

"Shh, dude, shut up!" Tucker made tone it down gestures at him as he sunk into in his seat.

"Yeah right. _I missed you_ ," Grif repeated with a snort. "He didn’t even notice you were gone." He raised an eyebrow at Tucker and his odd positioning. "And what the fuck is that about?"

Caboose spluttered indignantly and saved Tucker from responding. "Um, no, Gruff has it _all wrong_. I would not be unaware that neither of you turned up this morning! I would not do something like that!"

"He had no idea." Grif shook his head, before continuing to eye the two of them. Wash was facing the rest of the table now, but his eyes were scanning the boys around them, and he hadn’t relaxed into his seat. Grif nodded, as if they'd just confirmed something for him. "Right, seriously. What’s with the secretiveness."

"You two are awfully late," Donut agreed. "And, uh, breakfastless." He stared at the places on the table where their trays would be. "Do you... want me to get you something? Or do you want mine? I’m not really that hungry anyway."

"You’re not getting mine, so don’t even ask." Simmons elbowed Grif, and he looked insulted. "What? I’m not gunna lie to them, that’s not what friends do."

"Friends," Simmons scoffed. "Friends would offer their food. Anyway," he returned his attention back to the two boys opposite him, who looked unhappy to have the conversation directed their way again. "Why don’t you just go up and get a tray? You’re not that late. You might get told off, but they won’t not feed you."

"No, it’s fine," Tucker said absentmindedly, before he turned to Wash. "We don’t need breakfast, do we?"

"You should," Wash replied, not sparing a glance his way. "If you’re done, Donut, Tucker will have yours."

Tucker blinked, affronted. "Uh, bro, you can’t just—"

"But what about you?" Donut interrupted, sliding his bowl over to Tucker.

Simmons had to slap Grif’s hand away before he could intercept it, and the bowl made its way over to Tucker without further issue.

"I can go without." 

"Well so can I," Tucker frowned, and pushed it away childishly.

"Why don’t you both go get some goddamn breakfast?" Grif suggested. "And pass Donut’s over to me, of course, as payment for the excellent suggestion."

"Yeah..." Tucker started, but trailed off.

The sound that had distracted him went amiss by Grif and the rest of the table, bar Wash. When he trailed off, Grif waved a hand in front of his face, and Tucker quickly averted his gaze, flicking it to the boy next to him instead. Wash’s face was set in an impassive mask, and Grif noted that before he turned and craned his neck, looking over his shoulder and following Tucker’s earlier and blatantly obvious line of sight. He stayed like that for several moments, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and his neck cracked loudly as he turned back to face them.

"I don’t see the issue," he admitted, rubbing at his neck. "It’s the same old, same old."

"It is," Wash agreed quickly.

"Right. Fuck it, whatever. When you two are done being fucking weird, just say the word. We’ll wait." He leaned back and popping his knuckles, making a show of settling down in his chair.

"Yeah, what were we talking about?" Simmons asked, tapping his chin in thought. "Oh, that’s right, you were complaining because you think Tucker was gunna ditch you again to go to class."

"Huh?" Tucker’s attention focused on Grif, who went redder and struggled to hurriedly sit back up in his chair. "Really?"

"Well fuck, you haven’t ditched with me in ages!"

"Like, a few days."

"Feels like forever when it’s your friendship going down the drain."

They looked at each other before Grif snorted a laugh, and Tucker looked relieved, then amused. "Oh my god, you’re such a baby. Fine, I’ll come with you after school, how’s that."

"After school. So now I’ll have to hunt down one of the C block assholes _during_  school to waste my time. And don’t even think about suggesting I even go," he directed at Simmons, "because it ain’t happening."

Simmons rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, mumbling something under his breath. He was about to turn from Grif back to Tucker when suddenly their entire table jolted, and Sarge let out a loud curse.

"Christ!" Tucker looked up just in time to see two of the boys from Locus and Felix’s table sneer at them and walk off.

"Oops," one of them offered insincerely over his shoulder, and Tucker lifted both middle fingers in response.

Sarge began a low but steady stream of grumbles. When Simmons looked to Wash, he was gripping the edge of the table tightly, staring after them. His eyes were drilling holes in the back of their heads, his expression dark, and he looked like he was barely restraining himself from jumping up after them. That thought alone frightened Simmons, the idea of an altercation so publicly and so early in the morning spurring him into speaking.

"What was that?" he tried to ask, but it came out more as a squeak. Then a realisation hit him, and he looked at the backs of the exiting boys, then at Locus and Felix’s table, then back to Tucker and Wash. "Is _that_ why you guys were acting weird?"

Neither of them said anything, but the caught out expression on Tucker’s face and the guilt practically emanating from Wash was answer enough.

"Same old, same old, huh?" Sarge asked gruffly.

Tucker groaned miserably. "Yeah."

Grif watched them for a few moments before speaking up. "Hey Tucker? That wouldn’t have anything to do with yesterday afternoon, would it?"

Tucker deflated, and Wash heaved a sigh.

* * *

Over the course of the school day, after Sarge showed them his not so secret plans to build a giant robot to escape, and before Simmons was stolen away at lunch by Grif for some private time, Tucker struck a deal with Wash. Ever so honourably, he offered to make attending school a more frequent occurrence, on the terms that Wash would sneak off with him on every break to smoke.

"Just regular smokes," Tucker prompted, when Wash was clearly doubtful. "And we'll come back in time for your precious class."

"You don't need my permission, Tucker," Wash pointed out. "I certainly won’t stop you from leaving."

Tucker scoffed. "No shit, I know that. But I'd rather smoke with you than alone, and I never know exactly where Grif is. And, since you're the reason I'm in this stupid block, you owe me."

"Why am I the reason?"

"Time's ticking, dude." Tucker pretended to examine an imaginary watch on his wrist, then glanced back up at him. "You coming, or not? Awesome," he said, before Wash had a chance to confirm it. "Let's go."

He had to admit, spending a few minutes in a quiet room with Tucker and some cigarettes made the day a lot better. While the education wasn't stressful in the slightest, being in small rooms with dangerous kids, an apathetic figure of authority and some guards wasn't exactly the best formula for promoting a calming and anxiety free environment.

Simmons was a prime example of that. He loved the school, as he declared on many occasions, but they could see how much it exhausted him. He had a lot of answers, but he rarely suggested any of them, instead preferring to scribble furiously away at the provided paper and whisper it knowledgeably to his friends. He was content to go unnoticed, except for the occasional need to prove he knew something.

And, whenever anybody yelled, he flinched.

That was one of the first things Wash picked up on. Without fail, every time a voice was raised in anger, he'd flinch. Wash hated to imagine what would happen if it was directed at him. So far, obviously, it hadn't been, and it looked set to continue like that, but there was plenty of yelling, by both those in attendance and occasionally the guards, and that was enough to keep him edgy. Wash understood. He was the same. 

General school days meant Tucker trying to sleep through most of it, moving from position to position on the small desks in the search of optimal comfort. Occasionally, Wash would try and rouse him, but after the first few times he heard _It's your fault I'm here, and it's your fault I'm this_ _tired_ , he decided to leave it.

Caboose did as Simmons told him, and Wash assumed that was a good thing. Sarge looked uninterested, and seemed content enough to let the day pass with no other contact. He'd write on his sheets, or rather, draw, because the last time Wash checked he wasn't paying any attention to the class, but was drawing up schematics for the universe's first patented cyber human. There were pages of similar things, and there was even a page labelled _World's Deadliest Virus._  He didn't ask, but he gave a thumbs up when Sarge saw him looking. Although the older boy grumbled when he turned away, Wash counted four less _dirtbags_  directed at him that day than everyone else, bar Donut.

Donut, of course, did no work. He socialised. Endlessly. Every time he attended, he'd put all his spare items on Simmons' desk at the beginning of the day and start talking. He'd go between the people around him, and most of them seemed to genuinely like him, although that may have been because he seemed to be making a lot of trades.

Wash, on the other hand, tried to focus. Simmons made an effort to keep him on track, but when Tucker wasn't sleeping, he was talking, and most of the time the person on the other end of his conversations was Wash. He was amazed that they managed to discuss so many things of so little importance, because Tucker always managed to find a way to take him off track.

Rarely ever with any degree of subtlety.

"Hey, Wash, I know you never write anything down, but what's the answer to this?"

"Well, I—"

"Yeah, cool, I don't care. Anyway, can you imagine if the ceiling caved in right now? What do you think you'd do?"

And Caboose would probably join in. "Aw, I'd probably yell a lot."

"You do that anyway."

And Sarge, if it piqued his interest. "I can answer for all of you: die, hopefully. And I would survive, using my excellent survival skills and honed senses."

"And you're just gunna _sense_ that the ceiling would cave in?"

Maybe even Donut: "Don't talk like that! You'll _jinx_ us!"

"Relax, if the roof was gunna cave in, we'd probably be able to tell beforehand. Actually, on second thoughts..."

And despite how hard he tried...

"Ugh, don't be idiots. The structural integrity of this roof probably isn't even enough to last one quake. If it was gunna fall in, there'd be no warning, and no way that we'd survive."

Simmons would find himself drawn in, at least for a few minutes, before he'd shake his head and extract himself from the conversation.

"Pay attention, idiots," he'd mutter. "And, uh, Sarge."

No, not much was learned, but it was better than nothing. Half the time, on the days that Tucker didn’t ditch school entirely with Grif, he’d often disappear immediately afterwards, and it’d be the same deal — no sign of him until just before last head checks. Whenever he turned up after his absences, he wasn’t the same — not aggressive, but he never prompted conversation like he usually did, and Wash still hadn’t mustered up the courage to ask what the hell it was all about. He figured he'd find out sooner or later. That seemed to be the way things worked here — when you were so tightly knit, it was near impossible to keep secrets, and it didn't seem like Tucker was in any danger.

Or so Wash thought. But that afternoon, when Grif met them outside the rec room to take Tucker away, Sarge said something that caught his interest.

" _I'd hoped you good for nothing would be good for something, but I shouldn't have bothered."_

He'd said it straight to Wash, and Washington was surprised to say the least. It took a moment for his words to register, but by the time they did Sarge was already leaving, one last comment thrown over his shoulder at Wash. "That boy's not better than much, but he's better than that," he said, and he was gone.

That left Wash and Simmons, because Donut had set Caboose up in the rec room with Andersmith and gone back to his cell.

"What does that mean?" Wash asked, as soon as he’d had time to recover. He looked at Simmons expectantly.

Simmons stared blankly back. "What do you mean, what does that mean?"

"What do you— never mind. What did Sarge mean when he said Tucker was _better than that?_ Better than _what?"_

Simmons looked confused for several more moments before he jolted. "You don't know?" he asked, voice coming out higher in pitch than he'd intended.

"Clearly not," Wash said, miraculously patiently.

"But it's been a week! More!"

"So they're up to something?"

"No, no, nothing like that! It's just... I don't know, I don't know what you talk about! I don't even know what they do half the time, so I didn't know if he'd told you or not!"

Simmons' explanation wasn’t really intelligible, and even less convincing.

"Right," Wash replied, doubt clear in the tone of his voice, the arch of his eyebrows. "And you never asked Grif?"

"Why would I give a shit what he's up to?"

Wash was momentarily sidetracked. "But you're... you know."

"So? That doesn't mean I know what he's doing all fucking day! Seriously, stop assuming that!"

"Sorry, it’s just— so you really don't know?"

"No, I've got no idea!"

Wash shook his head. "I don't believe you."

That seemed to strike a chord with Simmons, because he started stammering."Seriously," he stressed, "I _don't_ _know_. Not for certain! If you want to know so badly, ask Tucker!"

"This is going nowhere," Wash muttered, rubbing at his forehead. "Alright, fine. I believe you."

That seemed to calm Simmons down, at least a little, because he lowered his arms from where he'd been waving them about and looked more hesitant. "Can I go?" he asked.

Wash looked at him, and he only went redder. "Of course you can go. But first," he said, and Simmons froze as if he was caught in headlights, "will Tucker be back for dinner? And Grif?" he added on, when Simmons’ eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"Oh. Uh, no." he said, and it was his turn to give Wash a strange look. 

"Okay. I—" He cut off abruptly, his jaw clamping shut as he stared over Simmons’ shoulder.

His eyes narrowed, and Simmons gulped automatically, glancing tentatively over his shoulder before turning back to Wash.

"Uh... are you... okay?"

Wash didn’t say anything for a few long moments, eyeing the rec room behind Simmons before he took several steps forward to stand beside the red haired boy. He leaned in close, and Simmons barely resisted the urge to back away, staring wide eyed at him in confusion until he spoke.

His voice was lowered to be nearly inaudible. "Is there any way out of that room apart from this door?"

"No?" Simmons angled his body to peer at the door, and still saw nothing. "Why?" He received no response, and when he glanced back at Wash, he was surprised to see he was no longer standing next to him. "What are you— hey, where are you going?"

Silence met his questions. Wash was striding away, looking purposeful.

"Alright," he squeaked at Wash’s back. "I’ll see you at dinner. Which is in precisely a hundred and four minutes, by the by. Uh, way. Bye!"

A small feeling of relief settled over him as he entered the rec room, craving a sense of normalcy.

Washington, as he quickly hurried down the hall, was experiencing the opposite. He knew he hadn’t imagined it. It had been Locus that he’d seen in the rec room, and the intimidating boy had been staring right at them, his gaze fixated on Wash and Simmons. But when Wash had caught his eye, he’d vanished out of sight, and Wash wasn’t willing to follow him into the recreation room. There were too many threats around, and despite the guards stationed around the room Wash wasn’t comforted. After all, they hadn’t stopped him in time before he’d hit Donut.

So it wasn’t an option in his books. He wasn’t a fan of second chances. And considering the fact that after the scene this morning, after the interruption by the two boys who’d been sitting at Locus’ table, he’d seen flashes of Locus throughout the day. It had started around mid afternoon, when Tucker had pulled him away for an _u_ _nscheduled_ _break_. As they’d exited the classroom, he swore he’d seen Locus at the end of the hallway, waiting. But Tucker had stepped into his view, and by the time Wash had moved around him, Locus was gone.

Then again, during lunch, when they’d gone further than they were strictly allowed to in order to find a quiet place to smoke. Then finally now, in the rec room. He evidently hadn’t expected Wash to look inside, and it unnerved Wash greatly.

So it wasn’t the first time today he’d thought he’d seen Locus around, but it was the first time he could do something about it. If he was being followed, he was going to find out, and he was sure as hell going to put a stop to it. With Tucker safely somewhere else, Wash could risk himself to a certain extent, so he reached the end of the hallway and made an abrupt turn, aiming for the door on the opposite wall that marked one of the recently emptied classrooms.

With a final glance around, he pulled it open and ducked inside, but instead of closing it all the way he left it open a sliver, providing himself with a tiny view out into the hallway ahead. He didn’t wait long. After a rowdy stream of boys passed, he spotted a gap in the midst. As he expected, it was Locus who parted them, standing nearly a head above most of the boys with his face set into a mask of indifference.

He approached the end of the hallway and didn’t even glance Wash’s way, instead turning the opposite direction to the door that Wash was hiding behind. Unaware that he was holding his breath, he waited until Locus’ back was facing him and slowly, he eased the door open, pausing until Locus was nearly at the end of the hall before he slipped out and moved silently after him.

He realised, two hallways into following him, that he had no plan. Engaging Locus by any means was obviously not a smart idea. Not direct confrontation, at least, not when he was by himself and nobody knew where he was. For all his defensive capabilities, he wasn’t an idiot, and he knew when engaging somebody was realistic. But he also knew that if he was right, and Locus had been following him since the encounter yesterday, then he needed to find out why. If Locus led him somewhere more populated, maybe he could have a chance at talking to him. That was... unlikely, but a small part of him held onto it anyway.

The need to confront him and establish what the hell was going on was winning out over his desire to avoid potential conflict, the desire that usually guided most of his decisions and kept him alive. But Locus had crossed that line when he’d cornered him in an empty corridor. More than that, when he’d set alarm bells off in Wash’s mind by just _looking_ at Tucker.

And he’d said it himself. “ _This wont mark our last meeting, Washington.”_

So Wash kept as far back as he could, and followed Locus deeper down the halls.

* * *

As soon as the double doors to the gymnasium began swinging shut, Wash darted out, pressing his palm flat to one of them with just enough strength to stop it from closing completely. He held it there for several long seconds, oblivious to the cold touch of the steel against his palm, straining his ears for the sound of footsteps.

The only ones he heard were the ones he recognised as Locus’ as the large boy moved away, flat footed and heavy but fast, his stride of quick pace. He tried to peer through the gap between the doors, but the small amount he could see was of nothing but a white wall. Impatience battled within him, and eventually it won out - he pushed the door open in a movement that was not nearly as smooth as he had hoped, and quickly stepped inside. He scanned the room with narrowed eyes, adrenaline tingling in his veins, followed quickly by relief at the fact that Locus wasn’t waiting immediately on the other side.

The large room was nearly empty. There were only two boys inside it, and neither of them were Locus, so he moved hesitantly forward. He barely had time to wonder where the hell he went when he saw the small door built into the wall at the far end of the gym swing shut. It was guarded by a small boy, who closed it quickly behind whoever went through, but the flash of dark skin he caught before it closed told him it was Locus who’d stepped inside. Before he was even aware of it, Wash was moving after him. His steps were silent as he closed the distance between himself and the door at the far end of the gym, but as approached, he could hear noise — faint, at first, indistinguishable, but comprised of many sounds.

He realised it was yelling, the sound of voices cheering and shouting, and the realisation made him nearly stop in his tracks. His curiosity had pulled him this far, but his self preservation instinct was kicking in, and something within him urged him away from the small white door.

He’d made the decision to walk away when the boy spoke up.

"You’re new here," he stated, crossing his arms. When Wash said nothing, he gave him a once over, as if sizing him up, then cocked his head. "You know Felix?"

Despite his confusion, after a moment of deliberation, Wash nodded. "Yes," he said, when he realised the boy was waiting on a proper answer. "He's in the cell across from me."

"Name?"

"... Washington."

He didn't get a chance to ask why before the boy nodded and stepped to the side, uncrossing his arms and waving him through. "Oh. Go ahead."

Wash glanced between him and the door, then carefully, he reached out and pulled it open. The sudden noise blasting in his face deafened him, and had he been less acclimatised to it he would have backed away, stepped back into the doorway instead of forward and through it. If he could think, he would have realised he’d closed the door behind him to remove the aching vulnerability that his back was to someone, but all his senses were suddenly assaulted, and his immediate priority was making sense of the situation ahead of him.

He was standing in a room filled with boys. The young one that had been at the door appeared beside him, then was gone in a second, weaving through the small crowd and disappearing without a word, leaving Wash alone and staring wide eyed at the scene in front of him. There was so much going on; the smell of blood in the air and the shouting fueled by raw power, the violent smack of skin on skin, and it took him a moment to comprehend what it was.

Then it hit him.

He jerked like a gun had been pulled to his head — a violent, full body flinch that shuddered its way through him, pushing bile up into his mouth and forcing the air from his lungs. He repressed it on willpower alone, and his eyes blew wide with fear as his entire body locked with shock and disbelief and shock. The room spun around him, and he realised he'd forgotten to breathe, the air already too thick to reach his lungs properly, but everything froze around him as a smooth voice spoke velvet into his ear.

"You must be Washington," Felix said, and Wash's first instinct was to lash out. " _Hey!"_

He moved out of range, throwing his hands up in defence, and took a moment to survey Wash.

"Interesting greeting," he said, voice barely audible over the sounds around them. A wolfish smile was giving glimpses of his pointed teeth, and he showed it for several seconds before he dropped the act and regarded Wash curiously. "I will admit, I didn't expect to see you here just yet."

He took a deeper look, taking in the uneven rise and fall of Wash’s chest, the panicked look in his eyes, and frowned. Despite pretending to be unbothered by Wash’s state, out of politeness or something more, his interest was shown in his tilt of the head.

"I was told you asked for me," Felix said, voice silken, gentle concern.

Wash shook his head, jaw tight, and said nothing in response. _Unable_ to. His jaw felt like it had locked, so tense and strained it physically hurt. Felix ran his eyes over him, a familiar analytical move that Wash had only seen reflected back at him on a few occasions, a move that would have filled him with mistrust had he not been filled to the brim with overwhelming emotions. The loud cheering made it hard to hear, but he understood where he was with perfect clarity. His heart was racing in his chest, pumping hot adrenaline through his veins, and he was filled with the sickening feeling of apprehension and fear that places like this had always given him.

He was overwhelmed.

Felix seemed to realise it. "Should we step outside?" 

The reminder that escaping was an option hit Wash like a tonne of bricks, and he spun on his heel, the painful awareness that he just turned his back to someone overruled by the fact that he could get out. It was an option he'd never had before. In fact, recognising it nearly stunned him, but as soon as he did he was acting on it, wrapping his hand around the door and slamming it open. The air was already cooler on his face as he darted outside, and he realised how heavily he was sweating.

His breathing was so loud to his own ears that he barely even heard Felix follow him out. When the footfalls behind him registered in his racing brain, he spun around, and he didn't second guess his instinct to lift his fists in defense. He kept them up high, danced away on the balls of his feet, body working immediately on years of instinct and falling into a familiar pattern as his mind raced desperately to catch up.

Felix just stared at him, a disbelieving smile on his face, one that quickly grew with mischevious curiosity. "The rumours about you are true," he said. He took a swift step to his left, and Wash matched it. Felix laughed, delighted, and took two more quick steps to the side.

Wash kept on him without thinking, and they circled each other for a few more steps before Felix nodded.

"That is _interesting_ ," he said, eyeing Wash like he would a new weapon.

He caught the way Wash leaned forward, seconds from striking, because he immediately held his hands up and laughed again, a rapid three fire burst that punctuated his quick steps backwards.

"Hey, relax. I'm not here to hurt you."

Wash didn't buy a word of it, but he stopped circling and kept his distance. He needed to think, to breathe, because the unsteady thumping of his heart seemed to resound one word within him:  _no._

No, it wasn't possible. It wasn't real. It _couldn't_ be —— except it was, and it was undeniable. It was his history, in his present. It was everything he knew, everything he feared, everything he  _was._

"Come on now. White flag," Felix was saying, easily, lazily, oblivious to Wash's racing thoughts. "Throw in the towel. Consider me the French."

It worked, at least temporarily, because Wash kept his range.

"What's the deal, anyway? You that eager for a fight?" he grinned, baring his teeth, and Wash flinched away.

He ran rapidly through his options. He was torn — leaving was the safe option, hightailing it out of here and straight to somewhere of relative safety. He could go to the rec room, to his room, even to D cell, any number of places with either safety in numbers or safety in solitude. But his mind was caught back there, fixated on the ring of kids, on the patch of floor that was stained redder than the others. The cuts and scabs and bruises on the bodies of the boys, who'd been mostly shirtless, slick with sweat from the heat and the adrenaline.

Wash knew that all too well. He realised abruptly that he must be dreaming.

"I'm mildly concerned," Felix admitted in a drawl, drawing him from his thoughts. "Usually, when people come here, they don't freak out about it afterwards."

"Here," Wash repeated, refusing to accept it. "What is _here?"_ He practically spat the question, the words injected with fury and disbelief, and Felix picked it up with no small measure of interest.

"I would have thought you’d know, all things considered," he edged, a quick lift of his eyebrow giving away his mild surprise, and when he gained no response he paused. "Alright. So you’re not here to participate, I’m taking."

The shouting inside reached a crescendo before it abruptly died down. It left Wash gritting his teeth, entire body straining with tension, but Felix didn’t look concerned. His full attention remained focused on Washington, and his eyes glinted as he leaned forward.

"So why _are_ you here?" he asked, simply, and it was a question Wash realised he couldn't give an answer to, so he gave something else — another truth, an alternative truth, that dredged itself up from within him and resonated with its painful accuracy.

_"It was a mistake."_

The words came out through clenched teeth, and Wash darted a glance between Felix and the door, trying to determine what to prioritise. Felix was quickly becoming the bigger threat, simply because of his proximity, but all of Wash’s energy felt like it was being sucked away, into the poisonous room he was mere steps away from. That he’d been _inside_.

"A mistake?" Felix gave a half incredulous laugh. "No, nobody comes here by mistake. Why are you _really_ here?"

"I told you," Wash ground out. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and he repressed the urge to shiver, bearing down on the prickling, wrong feeling that was flooding through him with every beat of his heart.

"And I don’t believe you," Felix said flatly. "Tell me why you came."

He was practically snapping the words, and it was doing nothing to calm Wash in the slightest. His agitation filled every word, and he wasn’t smiling anymore, not even the wolfish, teeth baring smile that Wash had immediately distrusted.

Wash didn’t bother giving an answer to that. He cared less what Felix thought, and the decision to leave was there, in the forefront of his mind. Grateful that his back was to the main door of the gym, he started edging towards it, and he managed two steps before Felix cocked his head at him and some of the tension faded from the air, replaced by something new.

Something  _predatory_ , but Wash was too lost to sense it.

"You didn’t know," he said, and everything in his voice was different. The light, not friendly, but curious, almost _cocky_ tone to his voice was back. The sharpness to his words had disappeared, replaced with something that seemed to burn with interest, and the steps he took towards Wash were almost enough to send him running. "Nobody told you?" he asked, head still tilted, eyes regarding him in a new light. "The fact that this is going on here? That you might just stumble upon it? No one thought to tell you?"

That raised a wave of questions, and despite his urgent need to leave, Wash paused. Felix was right.

Just thinking about it made him hurt, from the ache in his stomach to the overwhelming working of his mind, trying to analyse things all at once, trying to piece together possible explanations and reasoning as to why they wouldn’t warn him about something like this. Felix was watching him, eyes dancing on his face, taking in his reactions eagerly. Wash didn’t realise how openly he was displaying it all, the confusion and the suspicion and the hurt twisting his features into expressions that showed all too easily how he felt.

His usual blank facade didn’t stand a chance. He was still breathing heavily, all his first line defenses broken at the realisation of what he’d just seen, and he was focused internally. For a few moments, he directed all his attention inwards, in a move that just months earlier would have got him killed but instead left him vulnerable in a completely different way.

He didn’t see Felix lick his lips and lose the smile, replace it with something different. When Felix moved forward, and Wash snapped his eyes upwards, all he saw was concern, worry reflecting in his eyes and in the light chewing of his lip. Wash backed away, his blank mask falling into place far too late.

"I don’t understand why they wouldn’t tell you," Felix said, frowning. "I’m sorry you had to find out like this."

Wash shook his head rapidly. He was aware, instinctively, of the sudden change in demeanour — Felix’s delighted laugh, his curious eyes, his interest when Wash had been so clearly on edge — and his concern now, his abrupt apologeticness. Though the concern he was displaying seemed genuine, if not odd, in that moment it didn’t matter. If it wasn’t anything he had to immediately protect himself against, Wash didn’t care about it. His heart was still thudding painfully fast in his chest, and his mind kept flickering images of the room in front of him, reminding him of his need to move.

But he fought back against the urge to run, simply because he didn’t know where to go. His perspective had shifted, forced to take into account everything that happened, and with it came the inherent sense of instability and paranoia that left him paralysed with indecision.

"Are you alright?"

It shook him back into reality, and he tore his gaze from the white door ahead of him, swallowing down his emotions and letting his instincts kick in.

"Alright." Felix apparently knew not to push it, because he took a meaningful step back. He seemed to realise that Wash was planning to leave, because he held out a hand, drawing Wash’s attention back to him as he began his retreat. "It’s all voluntary, for the record," he said, lying through his teeth. "We wouldn’t do that to anyone unwilling."

Wash held his gaze for a moment before turning to leave, and Felix moved back towards the white door. When he pulled it open, using the swift movement to glance over his shoulder, Washington was already gone.


	14. lungs full of blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

He'd been here before, and he'd made it out. 

It wasn't the same, he knew, it was  _different —_ it wasn't him fighting inside those walls, and he wasn't there against his choice, and there wasn't no way out. He was living proof of that. He'd been inside, but he'd gotten  _out_ , and that meant that he was still breathing, his heart still continuing its unsteady  _thu-thump_ inside his tight chest. He was outside, in the first dark room he could come across, and he was  _okay._

That was a relative word, after all. 

He sought out the nearest solid surface and pressed himself against it, revelled in the reassurance it gave him to have his back against something. It helped to level out his uneven breathing, to calm the stuttering, gasping breaths he pulled in through his teeth. He sunk down, let himself hit the floor, focused on breathing. Pressed his palms down against the ground and just waited, until the painful tightness in his chest had abated to an aching throb.

He wondered, briefly, what Tucker would say if he saw him. Then he remembered that Tucker would have a lot to say about something else, because Tucker hadn't told him.

Even as the thought registered, he was rejecting it, trying to explain away the unexplainable and lessen the stabbing feeling that had slipped in between his ribs and centered itself there. He couldn't, he knew, because his mind had a stubborn habit of dragging things out of the boxes he'd neatly compartmentalised them in and forcing them to the forefront of his thoughts. He wasn't a survivalist for nothing, and to him that meant that he had to get himself together, hold himself from falling apart, and push on.

He moved his hands up to his eyes and pressed his fingers into them hard enough to see stars. The pressure felt relieving. A temporary pause in the whirlwind, and finally, he had confidence in the possibility that he could think through what he'd just seen without cracking at the edges. When he dropped his hands away from his eyes to blink around at the empty classroom, it was easier to think. He didn’t hesitate to press his palms flat against the cold ground again, going through familiar repetitive motions to stabilise himself, and fight away the screaming fear in the back of his head that kept bringing back what he'd seen, throwing him back into what he'd lived through, fought through—

 _Survived through,_ he reminded himself. Survived through enough to find himself back facing a similar situation, and not falling to his knees immediately in the face of it.

 _He wasn’t in there._ He wasn’t in that small room at the back of the gym, he wasn’t in the middle of the fight, and he certainly wasn’t back in the arena. That was the first thing he had to work through. The swift and unexpected memories that had settled onto him as soon as he was out of immediate danger, the flashes of his life in the arena that he’d been trying so hard to repress, flashes that usually only came out in nightmares but had threatened to come out full force.

Distantly, he lifted his palms from the floor and returned them to press against his eyes, beginning the set of motions again.

He’d never expected to be confronted like that. Logically, he knew it was different. He knew that an disorganised bunch of kids having fighting matches in a small room was far from the hell that he’d been subjected to. He knew that there would be an escape for these boys, somewhere to go after whatever fight they fought, an escape that didn’t lead down the same path to a filthy, freezing, dark cell. Knew that there was a chance for them to live, possibly a guarantee of it, instead of them being forced into a desperate fight for their life time and time again.

And if what Felix had said was true, there was nobody being forced to do it at all. He’d said that it was voluntary, and that made sense. Of course it was, and of course it was different.

But  _god,_ the sounds, they were the same, the violent  _smack_ of flesh hitting flesh and the tang of blood in the air, permeating every panting breath being drawn into his lungs until it felt like he was breathing blood, drowning in it—

Not _his_ lungs.He wasn't  _there._

He grit his teeth and sucked in steady breath after steady breath, and when he thought he was ready, he closed his eyes and tried again. 

But every time his eyes slipped shut he  _was_ there, screaming, sweating, _hurting_ as he fought fight after fight and time after time until he couldn't stand it. His eyes flew open to face the same dark classroom, unmoving, unchanged. It was Wash who was splitting apart, and the world was carrying on around him. 

Slowly, the tiredness took over, seeping the adrenaline from his veins and crawling through the blanketing numbness that always followed.

He always got tired. Mental exhaustion was quick to come to him, and difficult to shake off. He always felt like he was on the edge of just giving up as soon as anything happened, the precipice of _finished,_ of _done,_ of _he didn’t want to do this anymore_. Yet he’d felt like that for years, but he was still here, and whatever that meant was something and it was enough. As the memories and the fear and the sickness was pushed into the back of his mind, he was left with something else, something that shadowed his conscious thought of  _need to find_ _Tucker_ with something darker, and much more unwanted.

What Felix had said. It was right.

Nobody had told him about what was going on. His mind hovered on that for several long moments before finally, excuses started rushing in.

 _They’d looked out for him so far._ That was hard to admit, but to an extent, it was true. They _had_ looked out for him. It was possible, and most likely, that it was another attempt to do the same, to protect him from it.

If it was, he didn’t understand it. How could he possibly deal with it if he didn’t know about it? 

He didn’t press forcefully against his eyes this time, just rubbed at them, tried to fend off the gritty feeling from them completely.

It was possible they simply didn’t ever expect him to find it. More likely, when he thought about it, than simply choosing not to tell him. Considering how badly the first attempt at leaving by himself had gone, he’d been wary of making the same mistake twice, and Tucker had known that. Then, after the events of the previous afternoon he’d been content planning on never being by himself again.

Following Locus had been a split second decision, and it had been a bad one. He accepted that, but it didn’t change the facts — that he now knew about this place, and that nobody had told him. He was up and pacing around the room before he realised, a restless energy returning to him. As soon as he was moving, he was filled with a relentless urge to leave. The comforting darkness of before suddenly felt suffocating, the small size confining rather than reassuring. He would find more answers out there, because what it came down to was that he  _didn't_ have the answers, and it meant he couldn't figure it out on his own. 

He still trusted them enough to  _ask._ To at least give them that, and although it was small it was more than he’d ever given anybody for anything.

As he pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway, he swallowed down his nerves, and ignored the sickly feeling that was trying to bubble up in his chest. It was still there, whether he'd come to a decision or not — the uncomfortable,  _wrong_ feeling that told him something was off, something bad had happened, something bad was  _coming—_

He’d barely made it around the corner before he ran into Felix. The shocked noise that Felix made went ignored, and after a second Wash registered who it was in front of him and fell back — right into his position of self defense, where he stayed, ready to respond to Felix's first move.

And Felix broke into a surprised smile.

“Hey, it’s you!” he exclaimed.

Wash resisted the violent urge to punch him anyway as Felix's face fell.

"Oh, fuck. Shit. Forgot about that— well not  _forgot,_ like, y'know. I just mean... uh, are you, you know, okay?"

Wash stared. He thought it was pretty obvious he was far from okay.

"Yeah, stupid question," Felix admitted. "Just... not to sound like a pushy son of a bitch, but is there anything I can do to help?”

"No."

He moved to push past him, finished with the conversation, but Felix stepped into his way. The movement was casual, a confused frown thrown his way as he surveyed him. His eyebrows furrowed, apparently oblivious to how Wash had reacted when he’d blocked his path.

“Are you sure?” Disbelief tinged his tone, but Wash could clearly distinguish the underlying concern.

“I said no.” Wash repeated sharply.

"Yeah, okay, but..."

Wash could sense that he wasn't going to drop it. "I'm  _fine,"_ he bit out, and went to move forward again.

Felix didn't move out of his way, and Wash's options quickly dwindled to hitting him, or stepping back to regain his space. After a moment of consideration, where he heavily considered knocking him to the ground, Wash eyed the boy that passed by the hallway over Felix's shoulder and reluctantly took a step back.

Felix nodded, as if he hadn't seen Wash sizing him up. “Right, right," he said, "but see, you don’t _look_ fine, and that’s where the inconsistencies kinda add up.”

Wash paused for a long moment, looking closely at him, and Felix just offered a smile. Wash was wary, but apart from standing in his path nothing Felix was doing now was sending any warning flags up in his brain.

“I mean, finding that out has gotta be _pretty_ upsetting,” Felix continued, when Wash didn’t answer, still observing him for any indication of _what_ he was doing.

Felix almost matched him in height, but not quite, so the brown haired boy with the oddly shaven hair reached about eye level with his mouth. He was on the skinnier side, but even under his baggy overshirt Wash could tell that he had a wiry, muscular build. He was watching him so closely that he was startled when Felix abruptly moved. It was a simple shift back, innocent enough, but he'd come within a second of hitting him, and Felix seemed to see it.

"Oh. I'm sorry," he said, and it wasn't  _that_ which made Wash feel bad, it was the fact he'd responded that was in the first place. Even to Felix, who—

Seemed apologetic enough, he admitted reluctantly.  _Worried,_ and apologetic, and it was those realisations which kept him from retreating any further.

“I'm like a broken record, huh,”’ Felix joked, and then his smile dropped when Wash didn’t say anything. “Just wanted to say sorry, you know. I mean, for all that. With your friends, the whole not telling you thing... It would've been a shock...” 

Wash very purposefully didn't respond to that at first, because there was nothing he could say that would do any particular good. After a moment, however, the words came to him, and with no small degree of reluctance he ground them out to the floor at Felix's feet.

"It wasn't like that."

"Uh, sure," Felix agreed, but it was clear from his voice just how doubtful he was. Wash would have been content to leave it at that, but Felix spoke again the moment before he decided to leave. "Just, like... how's that work? If my friends kept shit like that from me.." he let his sentence trail off again, letting his words speak for themselves.

When Wash didn’t respond, Felix shrugged. “Well, I sure wouldn’t keep it from them.”

“That would be the obvious solution,” Wash murmured.

Felix just made a noise of agreement that Wash ignored, because the words hadn't been meant for him. Instead of responding, Wash fixed him with a meaningful look and nodded to the hallway behind him. 

"I'm leaving," he said, because _"c_ _an I go?"_ sounded too weak, too vulnerable. 

"Oh, okay." Felix looked at him for a moment, surprised, before he seemed to remember himself and take a quick step back. "Sorry. Didn't mean to... anyway, bye. Sorry again, I guess."

"It's fine," Wash ground out. It came out as ingenuine as it was, so when Felix immediately scrunched his face up at the sound of it, he tacked on a quick "Thank you for your concern."

Finally, Felix seemed satisfied, and he made no move to block Wash's path as he stepped past him. "Hey, no problem. Hope you feel better."

His eyes glinted as he watched Wash hurry down the hall at a brisk walk, and as soon as he was out of sight, the only sound was Felix’s footsteps echoing purposefully in the opposite direction.

* * *

 Wash had been laying in his bed for an hour.

The decision to skip dinner had been instantaneous, after he’d realised that it meant facing anyone. Simmons had told him that Tucker and Grif wouldn’t be around until after dinner, and despite his resolve from earlier, he wasn’t in the mood to discuss the situation with anyone but him. He knew he couldn’t look them in the eye when he knew what he did, and they didn’t know he knew it.

So he held back from dinner, and then from showers, too. He’d spent far too much of that time hiding out, desperately wishing for a cigarette, and wishing he could just talk to Tucker. He had questions. Of course he did, and the main one was the most obvious: why?  _Why — why_ didn’t they tell him, _why_ did they think keeping it from him was a good idea, _why_ did a place like that exist here in the first place —  
  
The questions went on, and the only person he trusted to get the answers from was Tucker. So halfway through dinner, he snuck straight into his cell, and waited. He was a fan of choices, after all, and despite his fear of disobeying authority, he'd learned already things like deviating from schedules were more of a victimless crime. He was okay with that. So he'd finally accepted the decision he'd really already made, and to his cell he'd gone — facing out towards the door, because maybe the fact that it was still open was what was keeping him from untensing.

He waited for what felt like a long time. Over two hours, considerably, in which he did nothing but stare at the bottom of the bunk above him and try and keep his mind from drifting into darker places. But then, he’d always had a strange sense of time, somehow both impeccable and surrealistically warped. Sometimes minutes felt like hours, though he was aware very little time had passed, but he’d lived through years of days merging into night with no indication except for irregularly scheduled fights.

Sitting alone in his cell, he was far too aware of how many reminders of his life he’d suffered through today. He hadn’t realised how much he appreciated Tucker’s company, either, until he was suddenly faced with nothing but his own thoughts for hours on end and nobody to distract him from them.

Until Tucker appeared.

Or, at least, began to. It was his name being hissed down the hallway that alerted Wash, and it was the glimpse of Tucker's upper body coming into view that confirmed it. Then Tucker was yanked back, a startled yelp beginning to escape his lips before a hand was slapped over it, and he disappeared from view.

Wash practically _flew._ He didn't feel his feet hit the ground as he flashed across the cell, lightning fast, his heart barely getting time to pick up its pace as the images of what he'd just seen burned themselves into his brain. On a subconscious level, at least. Consciously, he had one thought in his mind, one name, and the fact that _somebody had just laid a hand on Tucker._

“What the fuck, dude?”

Only a second had passed, but Tucker didn't sound panicked, apart from the already fading edges of fear in his voice. Wash froze as quickly as he'd moved.

“Sorry, sorry,” Simmons hissed. “I needed to get your attention before you got to Wash.”

“Don't fucking touch me,” Tucker spat, loud enough that Wash probably would have heard it even if he hadn't seen the brief glimpse of the tussle.

“ _Shh,_ shut up,” Simmons hissed again. “I need to talk to you really fast.”

“No, fuck no, you just scared the shit out of me. I thought I was gunna die, I was being kidnapped — anything could have happened to me.”

 _No, it couldn't have,_ Wash thought, but he kept silent, moving further out of sight and focusing his hearing.

“It's important,” Simmons was urging.

“Important enough for—"

” _Yes._ Look, Wash found Felix's place behind the gym.”

There was a pause. Then, “Oh, shit.”

Tucker sounded different, suddenly serious.

“Yeah. I don't know exactly what happened, or what he knows, but it’s not good.”

“Huh? Didn't you talk to him?”

“Not really! Felix came and found us, warned us that—“

“ _What?_ What’s that asshole doing? Dude, you know better than to trust anything he says! And he runs the fucking thing, why would he—”

“Look, that’s not important right now,” Simmons cut in, and his voice lowered in volume, losing the frantic pitch in favour of stressing what he was saying. Wash missed the next few sentences that were mumbled between them. Then Simmons’ voice rose again. “— and I wanted to talk to him, but Sarge said... and I couldn’t figure out what to say— we thought it would best be left to you.”

“Me?” Tucker sounded confused. “Why?”

Wash swallowed down an illogical pang of hurt.

“Because! You’re closest with him, and it’s you and Grif who are there every fucking day—“

At first, Wash thought Simmons had cut himself off abruptly, but he realised that he'd just stopped listening, because as soon as he registered those words it was like he suddenly wasn’t aware of anything else. He lost the rest of the conversation, drowned out by his racing heart, and he only zoned back in when he heard Simmons’ footsteps hurrying away. Seconds later, Tucker took two steps back into view.

Then froze, staring at Wash, who hadn’t bothered moving away from the wall to pretend he wasn’t listening. His eyes widened, and his lips parted, but he didn’t say anything. After several seconds of them staring at one another, Tucker slowly moved around into the small room, unwilling to stare at him through the bars for any longer than necessary. When he stepped through the threshold and into the small room they shared, Wash backed several steps away.

Tucker was stunned.

“I—“ he started, but he couldn’t seem to find the words to finish his sentence. "Wash. Shit."

“It’s you and Grif who are there every day,” Wash echoed, tone carefully blank, but his voice cracked at the very end and gave him away. He tensed his jaw as Tucker tried to process it, scrambling frantically to think of some way to respond. “What does that mean?”

Tucker licked his lips nervously. “What’s what mean?” he tried, and this time it was _his_ voice that gave him away, breathy and laden with guilt.

Wash stared back at him, as if he was hurt he even tried. Tucker swallowed, hard, and tried to kickstart his brain into working, but it remained caught in an odd limbo between paralysed at the turn of events and furiously overworking and he was left with nothing.

“You heard that?” he finally managed weakly, when his mind failed to supply literally _anything_ else. He regretted it immediately when Wash pulled further back, visually recoiling, and Tucker’s stomach lurched sickeningly. He took a step forward to match Wash’s step back, stopping only when he realised that it only made Wash back away further.“It’s not what it sounds like,” he managed, words running together in his haste.

Wash paused, and for the first time Tucker noticed how very _still_ he could be when he tried. Not a single muscle twitched, and his stare was unwavering as he waited.

“It’s not... It’s not like that,” Tucker heard himself repeat, sounding weak to his own ears but aware Wash was waiting on him to say something, to _explain_ , to give the words that they both knew he needed to hear.

“What’d he mean then, Tucker?” Wash asked, so quietly he had to strain to make out the words. “You go there, every time — is that what you do all day? When you’re not with me? When you leave in the afternoons, or don’t attend school with me, is that — you’re _there_?”

“Not _every_ time—” Tucker started, then cut himself off abruptly when Wash pulled back, stunned, his eyes searching Tucker’s.

Tucker faltered, pulled his gaze away. Wash made a small noise, one that Tucker tried to ignore.

“ _Why?”_ came his voice, seconds later and so genuinely confused it hurt.

Tucker opened his mouth to answer, but almost immediately, words failed him. He was _trapped,_ pinned painfully between two hard places that left him with no options and nowhere to go. He hadn’t expected Wash to find Felix’s place. Not yet. Not by himself. Not before Tucker had a chance to even think about explaining it, before he could tell him of its existence or what went on there, or what Tucker was involved with.

He hadn’t wanted to tell him that every time he left him after school, or made him go alone, or vanished for any extended period of time just to show up again right before final headchecks, he was back _there._ In the one place he knew Wash wouldn’t understand not telling him about. Yet there was more to it than that — more than Wash could know. Tucker couldn’t tell him, wouldn’t tell him, because it might risk more than what was already at risk here.

He couldn’t lie to him, but he couldn’t tell him the truth, because he wasn’t sure what was worse.

And he felt that knowledge like ten tonnes of stone crushing down on him. The pressure to say something was weighing on his chest and making it hard to breathe, leaving him aware of the hurt he could see building on Wash’s face the longer he didn’t explain himself. It just left Tucker even more desperate, still frantically searching for a way out of the mess he found himself suddenly thrown into, because Wash was _giving him a chance._ Given everything, given Wash’s distrustful nature, his years of paranoia and his rightful fear of putting any weight into relationships when he’d never really had the chance to before —

— the fact that he was still standing here, waiting for Tucker to explain, said more than any words could.

But Tucker wished it didn’t, and wished he wouldn’t, because Wash was staring at him almost desperately and Tucker knew how much trust he must have in him to even wait this long. How much trust in him he was breaking when Tucker just shut his mouth again, unable to tell him the truth.

Wash seemed to realise he wasn’t going to get an answer. This time he was the one that started to speak, a question forming on his lips, and Tucker knew it was a question because he always got that crease between his eyebrows before he asked something, that _fucking_ crease that Tucker didn't want to see because it reminded him of more than he wanted to think about.

Wash shut his mouth without voicing it, in a painful mimicry of Tucker, and a glint of betrayal flashed out at him. As quickly as it was there, it was gone again, and Wash’s eyes were cold.

He withdrew, the same empty mask falling into place that Tucker had watched him pull on everyone at some point. Everyone, except Tucker himself, since their friendship had really begun. It was that more than anything that left him aching, miserable and wishing he could rewind time, or reach out, _anything_ to take away that careful blank indifference Wash was regarding him with.

“ _Wash_ ,” he started, but his voice sounded as empty as the yawning, cataclysmic distance suddenly between them.

The sound of his name seemed to spur him into action, because suddenly Wash was stepping past him, giving him a wide berth until he was stood in the door to the cell.

He looked at him a final time — long, drawn out and searching — then he was gone, and Tucker was left standing in the middle of the cell, Wash’s name on the tip of his tongue and the bitter ache of self-hate settling in his heart.


	15. silver tongue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you like it <3
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! <3

One thing Washington had learned a long time ago was that even if everything inside his head was in turmoil, the world kept going on. It didn’t end when you felt like it did. He wasn’t at that point yet, didn’t quite feel like the world was shattering around him as it had when he’d first escaped from the fighting ring, as his feet had pounded onto the cold ground beneath him and he’d blinked rain desperately out of his eyes—

— not like that, no, but all he wanted to do now was run. He didn’t realise he almost was, his hurried pace picking up into a half jog, his feet light on the ground as he moved through the hallways with no goal in mind but to put some distance between himself and the thoughts that were plaguing him. Except he ended up carrying them with him, because he still wasn’t used to running from a problem that wasn’t a physical threat but one that thrashed and thrived inside of him.

The word _inescapable_ flashed through his mind, and although it had been fleeting it left a sour taste in its wake.

He had more questions than he could think about getting answered and no idea what to do with them. Nobody he could ask, and nowhere to go. He found himself slowing to a walk, and almost immediately, his thoughts caught back up with him, seeping through the half-hearted defenses he’d constructed in his mind to sink in.

Whatever was going on at Felix’s place, Tucker was a part of it. It seemed impossible, but then, only hours earlier, the very idea that such a thing could exist in here at all had seemed impossible too. So much that Wash had believed, wholeheartedly, that he must be dreaming. If he hadn’t spent all his life wishing most things in his existence were nightmares, he could almost fall for it now, convince himself that he couldn’t distinguish this from reality and let himself slip into the mindset that this was too surreal to happen. But that was a dangerous mindset, and he ignored the tiny part of him that longer for obliviousness. This was the reality he had to face.

That Tucker had—

... had what?

He realised he’d stopped in his tracks, dead in the middle of the hallway. His mind wasn’t working right. It wasn’t accustomed to dealing with emotional issues over physical ones. He drifted back to his thought from earlier — whenever there was something going on, it was usually a physical threat, not a deep, sourceless _ache_ that had started in his stomach and quickly spread throughout his whole body. He wanted to ask why he felt like this, but that tied into thoughts that ran deep, concepts that didn’t unravel until they were buried far inside him and he felt like if he tried to follow, he’d be lost.

There was too much, more than he wanted to think about, because why did it only really hurt that _Tucker_ was involved?

They _all_ had known, one way or another, he didn’t doubt that. The fact that Grif had also been implicated, that it was _Tucker and Grif_ who were there — Wash didn’t care. He didn’t like it, by any means, and his trust in Grif had plummeted from its already low standing, but otherwise? Even that Simmons and Sarge knew; he was bitter they hadn’t told him, but he wasn’t surprised. They’d protected their friends, first and foremost, and—

And maybe Wash was more hurt about that than he’d thought, because the realization that he wasn’t as much a part of the group as he’d assumed stung him deep. It had taken time and effort for him to be convinced that they were his friends, and he _was_ part of their group, but this spoke louder than any vocal reassurances because what it came down to was that none of them had chosen to tell him.

Yet, still, none of it stung as bad as the fact that Tucker was involved.

Subconsciously, he was aware that he’d resumed pacing, traversing up and down hallways blindly with little regard for his safety. The corridors were all empty, not a person in sight, and while that should have concerned him, should have tipped him off that something wasn’t right, he was too lost in the storm of his thoughts to pay it any attention. Since he wasn’t at immediate threat, the parts of his mind that would usually be analysing the situation around him were currently overwhelmed. Distracted, not properly _functional,_ failing without him even realising it.

He was focused on what felt more important. How the only word that kept coming back to him was _betrayal._

It made him angry. Undeniably, it was a muted fury that simmered within him, an automatic knee-jerk reaction to the hurt that bubbled up inside him and threatened to escape. As he walked, his hands curled into fists, his blunt nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he pictured the scene back in the cell. How he’d waited, feeling what remarkably resembled _trust_ keep him rooted to the spot in expectance. How wide Tucker’s eyes had been, how his lips had formed soundless words as he’d tried to formulate a response and come up with nothing.

And the silence, the same silence that was usually companionable and easy, this time driving a razor sharp wedge between them. His mind flashed to times before, all the suspicions he’d swallowed in the sake of trust, the unexplained absences and moments of odd behaviours and _secrecy_ that Wash had written off because _of course_ they had secrets, god knew he had his own, so he’d never questioned it, but he’d never imagined it would be this because Tucker _knew._ He was the first person in the universe Wash had ever told, and the last person on Blood Gulch that he’d ever expected to —

He _couldn’t_ fight there. Wash hadn’t seen any marks on him, no consistent bruising or indicators that he was physically fighting — and Wash would know. Felix had told him it was voluntary, so there was no chance in hell that Tucker would ever do that of his own accord. Not even before he’d met Wash. Not even with Grif. It couldn’t be.

Yet the small room at the back of the gym existed, and that was exactly what went on there, and Tucker and Grif disappeared nearly every afternoon into it and didn’t come out until right before final headchecks.

Wash felt physically sick. His hands, no longer clenched, were shaking, and he could feel his own clammy sweat cooling on his palms. He couldn’t deal with it right now.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. It was a sudden heavy footfall behind him that jolted him back into reality, and he choked on a curse when he became aware of just how vulnerable he was. He spun around, face set in stone as he came face to face with the threat. Felix looked back at him.

“You,” Wash said, without thinking, and took a step forward.

He’d seen far too much of Felix today, and next to none of it had been good — by circumstance, or Felix himself, it didn’t matter. Wash’s fingers itched, urging him to express himself in the only real way he knew how, and as if Felix knew it, he slowly raised his hands up in the air.

“I saw you come down this way, and you looked in kind of bad shape,” he said quietly, slowly, when Wash stared uncomprehendingly at him.

It nudged Wash back into reality, and he was aware of how aggressive his stance was, how unnerved Felix looked about it, but he made no move to relax. It was, in his opinion, a far cry better than looking as vulnerable as he apparently had. He knew he’d looked bad, _open_ , and he hated himself for it, but Felix apparently had no intent to dig at him. n fact, all he showed was that same concern he had nearly the entire time, and Wash realised he was speaking.

“I mean, considering what happened earlier...” he trailed off, and Wash stiffened at the reminder.

_“What?”_

“Well— running off this close to final headchecks... it’s dangerous, you know.”

“The only threat I see here is you.”

Wash’s response was immediate. The mention of earlier reminded him of the fact that the first thing Felix had shown wasn’t concern, but something predatory, and that the room at the back of the gym was referred to as _Felix’s place._  Felix jerked in surprise, the concerned expression dropping to be replaced with confusion.

“Me?” he asked, a half laugh escaping him. “Me? I don’t think I’m much of a threat, to be honest.”

Wash shook his head. “You’re the one that runs it.”

The accusatory tone to Wash’s voice didn’t go amiss for either of them, but that was exactly what Wash had intended. His words gave away a waver to his tone, buried underneath the hardness, but it didn’t matter. Felix had seen first-hand his reaction to everything. There was no point hiding it now.

“Well, yeah,” Felix admitted, frowning, and took a few slow steps closer, waiting to see if Wash would react. “But that’s only what they say. See, I’m the scapegoat. My friend Locus, he’s the brains behind the operation... _and_ the brawn. I’m just the... what do you call it, the figurehead.”

“Locus,” Wash repeated.

“Yeah,” Felix nodded, vigorously. “We’re partners... sort of. He calls the shots.”

It made sense. Locus being the one behind it explained Tucker’s intense distrust for him. But then, Tucker held the same distrust — if not more so — for the boy standing in front of Wash right now.

“Calls the shots?” 

Felix’s smile suddenly slipped, and he ducked his head, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Well, y’know,” he laughed, but it was hard and forced. “He likes being in charge.”

He sounded hesitant, all charming charisma gone, and the shift in demeanour wasn’t lost on him, but Wash didn’t know what to think of it. He eyed him as Felix rubbed at his arm, before he plastered another smile on his face and lifted his head to face Wash.

“What’s your point?” Wash demanded suddenly, somewhat harshly, another wave of tension running through him at the fact that he couldn’t figure Felix out, at how he’d felt a small surge of what felt like protectiveness, and the concept was so ridiculous and foreign it was shrouded in disbelief.

Yet something about Felix had just screamed vulnerability, and the way he’d hurried to cover it back up reflected it tenfold.

“Just that I’m no threat to you!” Felix said, quickly. “That you don’t need to be so tense around me. I’m not really all I’m talked up to be.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I’m serious! Come on, man, I’m just a little worried, don’t be so suspicious.” The smile dropped from his face again, and he closed a little more of the distance between them with an apologetic look on his face. He looked around, as if checking if anyone was listening, and leaned in. “Listen, I... about nobody telling you— I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Why?”

Wash recalled Felix’s realisation clearly, and while he hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, more focused on what that meant for _him,_ the mention of it made him grit his teeth once more.

“I’m trying to say sorry,” Felix repeated, pulling back. “And for the whole thing in general... I didn’t know that you’d react this way. Honestly, the whole thing, it’s just a bit of fun between us guys. A way to get the tension down, and I swear, nobody really gets hurt.”

“There was an awful lot of blood,” Wash said tersely, his mind on autopilot as he processed the information.

Felix gave a conceding nod. “Sometimes things do get out of hand, but it never goes too far. And like I said earlier, it’s all voluntary. We don’t drag kids in there kicking and screaming.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, giving a self-depreciating chuckle. “Sorry. I’m just... really bad at this.”

“At what?”

“At this!” Felix gestured towards him. “Making friends. Finding out if people are okay.”

“Why do you care?”

Wash was tired, and filled with distrust, but he wasn’t on high alert anymore. It didn’t mean he still didn’t want to leave immediately, because Felix had freely admitted to his connection to what was going on in the gym, and, well, Wash supposed that was a good thing, but something didn’t feel right, and he was still hurting, and the last thing he wanted to do was show that to a stranger. To  _Felix._

“Because I feel somewhat responsible,” Felix admitted, and then scrambled to cover it up. “I mean, not a lot, or anything, but I mean...” he sighed, giving up. “Yeah, alright, I feel a bit bad about it.”

“I repeat, _why_ do you care?” His tone was unwavering, but beyond that, the rest of him wasn't. 

If Felix noticed, he gave no indication of it, settling on a one shouldered shrug. “What can I say? I’m a nice guy. And when I saw you trying to get out of there in a hurry...”

“You decided following me was a good course of action.”

“ _No_ , I thought making sure you didn’t do anything stupid was a good course of action. The kids in here are idiots, and while I don’t really give a shit about any of them, I don’t want them causing unnecessary trouble, either.”

Something in his words caught Wash's attention, and he ran them over in his brain for a second, picking them apart, before he caught on to what it was. He tensed again, subtlety, but this time it was obvious that Felix saw it. He flashed his eyes up to meet Wash’s, and he huffed a quiet laugh.

“Jeez, you’re impossible to chill out.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Wash said simply, ignoring him. All of Tucker’s warnings echoed in his mind.

Felix’s lip twitched up. “I’d imagine so. From a very unbiased, trustworthy source, I suppose?”

They both knew who he was referring to. The word _trustworthy_ nearly made Wash flinch, considering all the things he hadn’t had time to sort through before Felix interrupted, but the whole situation put a new spin on his perspective.

“I suppose that’s... a fair point.”

“So, can I get within a few more steps without being attacked, or are you fine having a conversation from two metres away?” Felix winked at him, and gestured to the space still between them.

Wash tilted his head, then, finally, he stood down. "I think you can—"

He was interrupted, suddenly, as the lights disappeared for a second, replaced immediately by a flood of red.

Felix’s eyes flashed to his, wide and with an impending look of horror that fired up a hot, sudden panic through Wash's veins. 

“Oh, _no."_

Then—

The sirens began.

For several moments, Wash didn't know what was happening. A deafening noise filled his ears and reverberated around his eardrums, and the sheer shock of it nearly sent him to his knees. It was a noise unlike anything he'd ever heard before, a howling shriek so impossibly loud that it seemed to tear through the air and into the very fabric of his soul. When the panic released its clutch on him and sent him into flight mode, he span, wide eyed and searching for something, an explanation for the overwhelming sound. His hands lifted to press roughly against his ears but it did nothing,  _nothing_ to block out the bone shaking clamour as the sirens screamed on.

For a split second, the lights disappeared, and they were cast into darkness. 

 _I'm in hell,_ he thought, and the thought didn't dissipate when the light returned — this time a deep red that coloured everything it touched with blood. 

A hand wrapped itself around his wrist and he screamed, yanked himself away to stumble blindly backwards. His back hit the wall, hard, and the breath flew out of him and cut his scream off abruptly. 

Felix stared at him, his golden eyes perfectly reflecting the red light, and Wash was reminded that he was there with him. As he gazed blankly at him, Felix crossed the distance between them, and Wash didn't lift a finger in response as Felix reached towards him and grasped his jaw in his cold fingers. He pulled Wash's face in close, almost harshly, and his fingers pressed roughly into Wash's jawline, his cheek, his neck. Then he was leaning in, his thumb cupped under the line of Wash's jaw as he pulled them nearly flush, and only the beginning of one thought had the chance to flicker through Wash's mind.

_Is he going to—_

And then Felix's mouth brushed against his ear and Wash heard the word that finally made it all make sense. It ran shivers down his spine as it clicked into place, and Felix only hesitated for a moment before he released Washington completely, leaving a trail of goosebumps everywhere he'd touched. His eyes fixated on Wash's as he knelt, purposefully, to the floor in front of him. After a long moment of staring at Felix on his knees in front of him, Wash followed suit. 

From there, he broke Wash's gaze and lay himself down flat, hands wrapping back to lace over the back of his head instead of over his ears, where Wash couldn't tear his away from. 

And on and on the sirens went. 

He wasn't sure how long he lay prone, with the walls and the floor vibrating around them from the force of the noise, with the flood lights painting everything red, with the cold burn of Felix's touch still tingling on his skin everywhere that he'd touched. He didn't know, but after some time the sirens abated, then stopped all at once, leaving a silence that resounded so deeply it seemed impossible. He didn’t have time to prise his stiff hands away from his ears, didn't know if he _could,_  when the next sirens started up.

They sounded further away, almost as if they were reaching him through water. He realised that may have just been in his head.

"They'll be looking for us," he heard, and it was all he could do to stare at Felix. “They’ll find us in a minute, but it’ll be okay. Try not to panic.”

He wished he'd had more warning, but nothing could have prepared him. Movement caught his attention from the corner of his peripheral vision, and a moment later there was a gun pointed at him. He froze, his blood seeming to come to a stop in his veins, and he found himself wondering if this was how he would die.

It could happen so easily, he knew. So quickly, and maybe he wouldn't even know it. Maybe it would be over before he even knew it was happening, and all that would be left was his brains splattered over the walls, the floor, over Felix—

The gun lowered, and his heart picked back up again. A voice echoed in the background, and he registered it, even if he couldn't understand the words over the rush of blood in his ears. A figure loomed over him, and he would have tensed more if it had been possible.

He couldn't, so instead, he felt himself start to tremble.

_Stay still don't move don't panic just breathe—_

“Don’t move,” Felix advised him, almost silently, as if he could hear Wash's thoughts, could read them from the panic on his face.

A guard leaned down towards them, his words demanding and furious.

“ _What are you doing out here?”_

Felix didn’t provide an answer, and Wash followed his lead, too numb to do anything else. At their silence, one guard disappeared out of sight behind them. Wash squeezed his eyes briefly shut before forcing them wide open again.

“On your knees.” They barely heard the order as the sounds of more guards approaching reached their ears. “Hands behind your heads.”

The two boys stared out at them, one frightened and pale white, the other defiantly silent.

“Now,” he asked, when they had complied, and a few moments had passed. “Answer me. What are you doing out here?”

This time, Felix spoke. “We didn’t realise the time, sir.”

There was silence as the guards looked at each other.

“Search them,” the one who had found them ordered, and two guards approached them warily, looking for any hint of a threat. “On their knees, then stand them up and search them again.”

Harsh hands began roughly patting down Wash’s body, and it took the last modicum of self-control he had to stop himself from lashing out. Felix seemed to realise it too, was perceptive of just how tense he was even as he had his own privacy invaded. He wasn’t the only one who noticed. The first guard leaned in and breathed in his face.

“Something to hide?” 

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, and Wash barely grated one out, wishing desperately he was anywhere else as hands made their way up his back.

“No, sir,” he managed, his throat tight around the words, and they came out rough and grating, guttural.  

“Stand ‘em up.”

Wash was hauled roughly to his feet, and he flinched, his eyes squeezing shut of his own accord. He had to force them open once more.

“They’re clean,” one of the guards announced from next to Felix, and Wash sagged with relief.

The blue eyed guard stared them down for a long moment. “No drugs. No weapons. No clear indicator of why you weren’t in your cells. I’ll ask one more time: why are you here?”

“We didn’t realise the time, sir,” Felix repeated, trying to keep the emotion from his voice.

“You didn’t realise the time. We run a tight schedule around here, and it doesn't lend itself to variation. The empty hallways didn’t make it obvious? The fact that you should have gone directly from your showers to your cells? You’re not A block inmates, so why are you here? There should be no reason for you to be deviating from paths.”

No answer. Wash stared down at the floor.

“It was my fault, sir,” Felix finally said, and Wash barely repressed the urge to jerk his head and stare at him. “I thought it would be a good time to show the new guy the way to A block and back. He has a friend in there.”

“New guy,” the guard repeated evenly, and his scrutinising gaze turned to Washington once more.

Wash barely heard two of the guards leaving — there were only the two remaining, and he realised that at some point, the second set of sirens had cut off; with it, the lighting had returned to its normal colour.

“He’s only been here a week," Felix responded. "He’s still adjusting, and I thought—”

“Shut it.” Felix cut off abruptly. “You. I’ve seen you before.”

Felix didn’t say anything, just stared back up at the guard. There was a long period of silence that dragged on for at least a minute, before the guard finally turned back to the other one and muttered something incomprehensible. 

“Follow me," he ordered, a moment later.

They did. Wash's shaky knees barely supported him, offered him nothing more than the barest of stability as he lurched after him, painfully aware of the guard to his back. His wild eyes sought out Felix, who regretfully met his gaze, and read into the fearful question there.

 _Solitary,_ he mouthed, the answer to the question Wash couldn't bring himself to ask, and it was like a kick in the stomach. 

Wash felt his jaw drop, but he said nothing,  _did_ nothing, too shaken and shocked. The sirens felt like they had carved a path through him, and even now it remained, now filled with tremors that came from within him rrather than from outside. He was barely able to lift his eyes to Felix's, to the gaze burning holes into him, and he didn't have the strength to keep them there. He felt like he'd been dropped into cold water and now he was drowning there, the shock creeping steadily through him, with the sound of echoing sirens.

On, and on, and on, and on—


	16. dreams aren't meant to be dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr <3

_Silence, like nothing he’d experienced before. No hushed whispering, no rustling, no signs of life. A complete absence of sound except for the harsh sound of his own breathing rasping in and out, uneven, refusing to steady despite the hours that dragged past._

_Fear. Knuckles bloodied and skinless from knocking them against the wall next to him for hours, the repetitive thudding grounding him, just enough to keep him from slipping into panic. His mind in a state of paralysing numbness from the weight of the darkness and the cold, cold silence that conjured up monsters around him._

_Loneliness. No Tucker to nudge away the fear, to remind him the world didn’t narrow down the impenetrable blackness that surrounded him,_ _or to bring him back when he succumbed to his nightmares._

_Nightmares. A glimpse of Felix, of a cunning smile and a shadow against familiar tiled walls swaying in an impossible breeze. Locus, hovering at the end of a long, dark corridor. A flash of steel and agony biting at him and red all over his clothes, his hands, the floor._

_Pain. Phantom, but spreading through his body and surging in his veins until he was biting his cheeks and thin trickles of blood ran down his hands where he dug crescent moons into his palms._

_Longing. Tucker’s face, peering out at him from the darkness, mouthing his name._

* * *

Wash emerged from the cell the next morning, pale faced and shielding his eyes from the harsh fluorescent lights. When he was dragged out and the door to the cell was slammed shut behind him, he flinched. Everything in him felt frayed and worn thin, and as he was led down a short hallway and into a small, white room, he was left running on nothing more than spiked anxiety levels and a wiry, nervous tension.

Physically, he was fine. He kept double checking, running his hands across his chest and down his arms, then back up again. As he held his trembling hands out under the bright light, turning them over and over as he was marched down a hallway and into a small room, he dully registered the dried blood flaking around the nail marks he’d dug into palms. He’d woken up with little memory of what he’d dreamed about. Looking at the marks he’d left littered on himself, he thought maybe it was a good thing.

They were led into a room, and the door was left open in their wake. After a few seconds, Wash nervously inched further forward, trying to put more space between him and the open door behind him. It earned him a sharp look, and the guard reached towards him, only to move past and pull the door shut. After a few moments of being eyed by the guard, he was nodded towards a bench attached to the wall, beside one of the remaining doors. The final door stood on the wall exactly opposite, putting Wash out of immediate range of potential danger.

After evaluating his options, and a second glance at the guard who looked increasingly impatient, he hesitantly approached it and slowly lowered himself onto the cold wood. The guard wasn’t looking at him anymore, instead fixated on the clipboard now in his hands, tapping the cheap looking pen against his teeth as he perched on a chair. 

The minutes passed by quickly. The guard finished his paperwork and clicked his pen a few times, but made no move to do anything, so Wash continued to stay in place, his form still and unmoving.

It seemed to be the right decision, because after barely a minute more had passed, the door Wash had come through was opened and Felix was led inside. In the background, the two guards began exchanging words, but Wash’s gaze was focused solely on Felix. Felix met his gaze evenly, sharp eyed and watchful, until he was directed to the same bench Wash was sat on.

Wash’s guard finally hauled himself to his feet. He nodded to the female guard as he passed over the clipboard, and she busied herself with beginning to fill in a new page as he exited out of a different door to the one they’d come in through. Wash broke away from Felix's gaze long enough to try and peer outside as the door was opened. He caught a glimpse of familiar lighting and a long, empty hallway before the door was closed again, and when he leaned back against the wall, he became aware of the remaining guard eyeing him warily.

He directed his gaze back at the ground and resumed waiting. He may have disregarded any possible ideas about the door, but he hadn't disregarded Felix’s proximity to him. He felt almost unable to, like Felix's presence demanded attention to be drawn towards it. That thought burned through him, consuming him, until Felix sought out his gaze on one of Wash's glances to him and kept it.

" _Questioning,"_ he mouthed, and Wash's lips pressed together in a thin line. 

Felix licked his lips, glanced away, then turned towards the guard and cleared his throat. She looked at him.

“I don’t see why we have to do this stupid questioning shit,” he said, so boldly that Wash winced away from him. "Same thing each time, isn't it? Take us in one by one, ask us what we were doing and why we weren’t in our cell, try to get us to admit to shit we didn’t do—"

She snapped up a palm and took an ominous step towards him. “Be quiet,” she said, an order and a warning all in one. 

“Well, can’t you just pass on the message?” Felix continued. “Just tell ‘em I was trying to show my friend the way to A-block and we didn’t know the time—”

“That’s _enough."_

Felix cut himself off and leant back. "Alright. Sorry."

The guard didn’t sit back down immediately. Instead, with a long, calculating look that left Wash unsettled and even Felix somewhat uncomfortable, she lifted her chair and walked it towards them. When she was within a few metres, she set it down, settling back into it. Neither of them had a chance to say anything more. Not long after the guard had picked her pen back up and resumed filling the sheet in, the only remaining unopened door in the room was opened.

A guard stood in the doorway, on carpeted floors, with a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Washington, David."

Slowly, Wash got to his feet. He knew what was expected of him, but his reluctance to pass through the doorway in front of him kept his feet rooted to the spot. His early days of being processed had drilled it into him that keeping guards waiting was not a good idea, but he hesitated anyway, trying to get a good look past the guard and into the room beyond him.

Then the guard took a step towards him and he found himself walking forward.

“Good luck,” he heard Felix whisper from behind him, and a small, fleeting wish flew through his mind that they’d called Felix’s name first.

He didn’t get a chance to think about that before he was sat down, and the questioning began. It didn’t go on for long, but the questions circled around and around until Wash was dizzy.

_“What were you doing out during inmate count last night?”_

_“Why were you not in your room?”_

_“Was there anyone else with you?”_

_“What time did you leave your designated area?”_

Then, finally, after they’d exhausted every possible version of the same essential questions for the dozenth time, they took him out and led Felix in.

To his dismay, he wasn’t released immediately. He was forced to sit on the same bench as he had before and wait, with no signs given that he would be allowed out any time soon. He was almost grateful for that — he didn’t know where he would go, and his fear of the unknown, of being stuck needing to make a decision and not being able to make one, nudged at him.

Almost, but not quite. Whether he admitted it or not, he missed Tucker, and that thought wore at him long enough that when they brought him back inside and sat him down next to Felix, it was a distraction that _was_ welcome.

Felix quirked the corner of his mouth up at him as he was guided into his seat, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked as done with the situation as Wash was. He expected the same questions as last time, but this time they were different, focusing more on why he had been with Felix, why it had been Felix showing him, why Felix had agreed to help him when he knew it was close to headcount. In the end, while their story was suspicious, they’d both been clean, and there was no evidence of anything implicating them in anything — they’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but apparently that in itself had been bad enough.

They were released at the same time, nodded out the wooden door and back into the white walled room. And then, to the relief and gratefulness that welled up inside him, through it, and out through the door that Wash’s guard had exited through. The sound of his shoes hitting tile again filled him with a strange sense of comfort. Felix was called back before he could made it out the door, for a final word with the guard who’d watched them in the waiting room, so Wash continued on, allowing his steps to echo on the floor as he tried to get as far away as possible.

He made it to the T intersection at the end of the hallway before Felix called his name. It echoed out at him from the direction he’d just come, and it was an automatic reaction for him to flinch, but he straightened up immediately, taking a step back towards Felix and glancing around the corner to make sure there was nobody nearby.

“Holy shit, huh?” Felix gave him an understanding look, a twist of his lips as he approached, running a hand through his partly shaven hair and looking at Wash. Although he didn't respond, Felix laughed. "I know that feeling. I can’t tell if I’m bored to death or talked to death, because they manage to say so much but never really say anything at all, you know? Once you’ve been through that once or twice it really loses its charm.”

Wash looked him up and down, and then nodded.

“Lucky neither of us have any real track record within this place, otherwise they would have come down on us _hard,"_ Felix continued. "All things considered, that was getting off lightly — they just have to go through that shit because of legal requirements. If they’d really suspected us, we’d be fucked. No bullshitting gets past serious interrogations, or so I’ve heard. I'm glad you picked up on what I was trying to say, is what I’m getting at,” he continued, when Wash said nothing. “You do _not_ want to have a consistency error. We’re lucky — I mean, if they’d asked us the hardball questions...” He shook his head, but grinned at him. “We made a half decent team. Anyway, what are you doing?”

Wash stared at him. His mind was already racing from the questioning, so it didn’t take him long to sort through everything Felix had said, but before he could respond Felix snapped his fingers.

“That’s right!” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to apologise for not getting you back to your cell in time.”

It took a few moments for his thoughts to straighten themselves out enough to realise that this time, Felix expected an answer. "I... It's not... something to apologise for," he finally said, very carefully.

Felix raised an eyebrow. "Uh, kinda think it is. It caused a whole bunch of pain in both our asses. I don’t know how I fucking forgot, I was just caught up talking to you, and it just, I don’t know. I didn’t think.”

“It’s not your fault,” Wash said, somewhat unconvincingly. He didn’t know what else to say, and the conversation was so painfully one sided that he nodded as a goodbye and turned to leave.

“Hey, wait,” Felix called after him, softly.

Wash hesitated for the shortest of seconds before he turned back around.

“We got interrupted last night before I really got to apologise, and so I guess that's _another_ thing to add to the list..." he trailed off with an awkward laugh, then picked back up again. "I mean, we started, but I never really got the chance. It’s funny, I don’t even really know why I care. I just feel bad. It obviously meant something to you, seeing the place behind the gym yesterday, and I mean, my goal was never to fuck anyone up.”

“I don’t—”

“So I’m sorry,” Felix concluded with a shrug. Then, “I mean, I don’t know exactly _what_ the hell is really going on with you and it, or really what I’m apologising for, which is kinda weird, but I know that it’s _sorta…”_ he shifted, as if looking for the words, before settling on the obvious, "a big deal. Which impacts badly on my impression on you, and that’s really not what I’m aiming for, here."

“Why?” 

Felix laughed, that same already familiar _nervous_ half laugh that he gave whenever he appeared to be unsure. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why would you care? Why would it even cross your mind to consider my feelings regarding the matter, let alone how that impacts on my impression of you? Why apologise, when you don’t even know what you’re apologising for? _Why?”_

When Wash finished, Felix hesitated, looking as surprised as Wash felt at the display of emotion. He whistled, lowly, but when Wash didn’t smile he became serious again, searching the blank white hallway around him as if for inspiration.

“Look, if I had a proper answer to give, this is where I’d give it, right? Some excellent, convincing speech that would make me look as cool as I am and help this whole thing blow over? Well, I don’t exactly have one, because I don’t exactly know why it means anything to me. Like, in the slightest.” He gave a half shrug. “Something to do with guilt. You wouldn’t expect it, huh?”

Wash hesitated. “So you don't know why you're doing this?"

Felix’s eyebrows shot up. “Is this a fucking test? Christ, I don’t know, maybe it’s because I can tell that you might actually be the realest asshole in this fucking place.”

That caught Wash’s attention again, and Felix eyed him, chewing over his words before giving in.

“You’re _observant,_ " he said pointedly. "You’re smart, you’re fast, you’ve got good instincts, and that’s a thousand times better than anyone else here. I guess I respect it, I don’t _know,_ I didn’t really analyse it when I decided to try talking to you.” Wash didn’t look convinced, so with a sigh, Felix took a step closer and leaned in.  “The point is, you seem like someone who’s seen a whole lot of shit."

"I—"

" _And_ , and this is probably where it gets me, so listen close, it seems like you're pretty done with all that shit. Don't want any more of it. But you still find yourself in the middle of shit situation after shit situation, with problem after problem being thrown your way. And believe me, I understand.”

There were a few beats of silence while Wash processed that. “I don’t see why that has anything to do with this."

“But you do,” Felix insisted, stepping closer. “Take one look at yourself and you can see it. You’ve got the vibe about you. That all you want to do is avoid trouble, but you keep getting dragged back into it. And I can _relate._ ” Wash shook his head, but Felix was speaking again immediately. “You’re, what, distrustful of me immediately? Because you know I’m involved in what goes on back there? But did you ever stop to think that I don’t have a _choice_ _?_  That I’m dragged back into the shit back there, time and time again?”

He was met with a slight widening of Wash’s eyes, but then he shook his head. Felix shrugged, and the conversation came to an abrupt stop.

“You asked,” he finally muttered, looking regretful about what had just occurred.

Wash was hit with a tiny pang of remorse. “Hold on. What you’re saying is—”

“Is that I think we have a lot more in common than what you might think, Wash,” Felix said softly, and the sound of his name being spoken made Wash startle.

He wondered how he'd even gotten to this point, to where he was somewhere in the middle of a conversation with Felix, where his responses had turned into something that Felix could throw back at him. And Felix was staring at him, into him, swapping his gaze from one eye to the other searchingly as if that would better help him find whatever answers he was looking for. Eventually he gave up, pulling back, and lifted one hand to rub tiredly at the bridge of his nose.

“I think I need a smoke,” he said, when Wash didn't offer a response. He peeked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You comin’? Or you got other stuff to do?”

Wash watched him for a long moment, and found himself considering his options. If he said no, he’d have to kick his brain into formulating a course of action, somewhere to go that didn’t involve Tucker just yet. He’d passed over thinking about it for most of last night, preoccupied with other things, and the idea of facing him just yet made his stomach twist. He was still a long way from ready to deal with his emotions, or figure out his next steps, and this provided an excellent distraction even if he wasn’t sure about Felix.

It was interesting. While he didn’t harbor the same fearful resentment he’d associated with him during their first meeting, he still held a natural mistrust for him that stemmed from somewhere he was unsure of. He assumed it was because of his affiliation with the fighting ring, but it seemed deeper than that, the roots spreading down and somewhere he couldn’t find the source. Yet, there Felix was, trying harder than anyone had ever tried before to get Wash’s trust, to turn him so he was on his side, and it seemed to make Wash pull away further.

Granted, that didn’t mean he was trying very hard at all — two conversations, one check-up if he was alright and now this was all that his efforts consisted of — but it was still far more effort than anyone else had made. Even Tucker had said it himself. He had only bothered with Wash in the first place because they were sharing a cell together. That had been before their friendship had kicked off. It was one of the very first things Tucker said, but it stuck with him. He didn’t enjoy the way feeling like he wouldn’t have been worth the effort otherwise left a sour taste in his mouth. And after the events of last night...

He reached a decision that would eventually damn him.

“I hope you know somewhere to go, because it appears my options are suddenly lacking.”

Surprisingly, Felix laughed, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes at Wash’s dry comment. “No need to be like that,” he chastised, and cocked his head down the hall in an indication to start walking. “I’m sure everything going on with you and your little friends will blow over.”

“Little friends,” Wash repeated evenly. He made no further comment on it, but Felix picked up on his underlying tone, because he scrunched his face up, assuming it was directed at his word choice.

“Right. Sorry. Your friends have a tendency of... rubbing me the wrong way, shall we say. Tucker especially. Is that a decent enough way to say that I think the guy’s a cunt?”

Wash spluttered, covered it quickly with a cough, but Felix winked at him as they walked anyway. “I’m not gunna lie about it,” he shrugged. “I’m sure he’s said just as bad about me.”

It felt strange, Wash realised distantly, to not only be talking to somebody he’d been taught to avoid, but talking to him about subjects he was used to dancing around with Tucker. Felix’s next words seemed to confirm that.

“I don’t care,” he laughed, assuming Wash’s hesitation was to spare his feelings, and he seemed genuine. “It’d take a lot to upset me, and I don’t think it’s anything you’re capable of.”

“What do you mean?” Wash didn’t look Felix’s way, kept his eyes trained instead on the hallways Felix led them down and the corners that they rounded.

“Well everyone’s got something or other that fucks with them. It’s a shame I know anything about yours, because I feel almost obligated to return it, but I think I’d feel _slightly_ better if I kept that tidbit of information out of your reach for now.”

Wash had been right. Talking to Felix was... different. He was steadfastly straightforward, blatant and blunt to the point of honesty. Without even realising it, Wash was drawing subconscious parallels between he and Tucker. He didn’t know enough to realise that Tucker was his only real point of comparison, and it curbed his awareness that he was connecting them how he was.

“I wouldn’t want to know,” Wash informed him after a moment, caution evident in his tone. “That information isn’t something I’d wish anyone to know.” He paused. “And I’m sure that whatever you think that my... weakness, so to speak, is far from the mark.”

Because he wasn’t even sure he knew what it was himself, just that something within him told him it was something relating to Tucker.

“Right,” Felix laughed. “Problem solved then, don’t you think?”

Before Wash could respond to that, he stiffened. He recognised the halls that Felix was leading him down. He stopped in his tracks, and Felix turned to him in confusion.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?” he demanded, flatly, before Felix could voice his question.

“Come _on,_ relax! Yeah, we’re going to the gym, but it’s not like I’m gunna force you inside, I just need to grab some stuff! And I’m not _taking you_ anywhere. So far, you've been coming of your own accord.” He seemed annoyed by Wash's assumption, but he shook his head and forced it away. “Anyway, we need to pass the gym to get to the old equipment rooms anyway, and there’s no other way to get there aside from the way you already know. It goes past, but you don’t even have to go through the big doors, so I’m sure that’s no trouble for you.” Felix raised his eyebrows pointedly.

Wash hesitated, then nodded stiffly, and he was the first to resume walking. Felix arched his eyebrows even higher, then lowered them again, but the eyeroll he gave was long and drawn out.

“Alright. When we get there, just wait outside, I’ll be not even a minute.”

He didn’t sound like he was expecting an answer, so Wash didn’t give one, and they continued forward in silence until the double doors were in sight. Felix strode forward, pushing the double doors open and strolling through. Wash was left waiting outside, so after a moment he leaned against one of the walls and waited, somewhat nervously, unable to push away his awareness of what lay beyond the doors ahead of him. Thankfully, Felix was true to his word, and he was in and out quickly. Wash didn’t get a chance to ask what he’d wanted from there before Felix was speaking, accentuating his words by pointing at the adjoining corridor leading to the right and beginning to walk.

“You might not like the gym, but you have your places, and I have mine,” he said, as if in response to some unspoken cue. They began passing doors set into the walls, and Wash wondered what was behind them, since all the classrooms were back in the schooling area.

He hadn’t been this far out — he hadn’t had any reason to. There didn’t seem to be much more to the building past this side of the gym anyway.

“This is where you spend your time?” he asked, somewhat curiously, and glanced at Felix from the corner of his eye.

“You may have noticed that people don’t generally _mingle,_ ” he pointed out.

“Except you."

Felix shook his head. “Not even me. Locus doesn’t like it when I talk to other people.” A sudden silence descended, and when Wash stared at him, Felix covered his face. “Alright. That just made me sound like an abused spouse, but whatever." He dragged his hands down his face. “Which it’s _not_ like, for the record.”

He tacked it onto the end innocuously enough, but something about it rang wrong with Wash, and Felix seemed to realise it. What he’d said earlier, about Wash being observant, he genuinely appeared to believe, if the way he watched him for most of his reactions was any indication. When Wash was forced to look away to see where he was going, Felix darted forward and gestured to the closest door.

“Oh look,” he said unconvincingly, “here we are.”

Wash watched as Felix tried the handle, sighing in relief when it opened. He turned and gestured grandly to Wash, waving him through. After considering his options, Wash accepted, and tentatively stepped forward and into the dark room. Felix slipped in immediately after him, feeling around for the light switch and making a noise of satisfaction when he found it.

“Not exactly the room I was aiming for, but it’ll do,” he mused aloud, eyeing the racks of sport gear lining the walls.

“What do you mean, not the room you were aiming for?”

Felix paused, searching for a response to that that wasn’t an outright lie.

“You never really know with these rooms?” he tried, and when Wash stared evenly at him, he gave in. “It was just about time for a subject change, and this room was conveniently located. It’s not far from where we were meant to go, anyway. Same concept, different room. Little smaller, but it’s all the same.”

He pretended he wasn’t aware of Wash still watching him, processing what he said and its implications while Felix continued to examine the room with exaggerated interest. Eventually, Wash just shook his head and let it be. Felix took that as the cue it was and immediately dug in his pants pockets, extracting a squished looking packet of cigarettes.

At Wash’s raised eyebrow, he lifted one of his own.

“Problem?” he said, sliding a stick out and holding it between his lips, then offered the pack to Wash.

“You just carry them around,” Wash pointed out. He leant back against the rack behind him, not relaxed, but not ready to jump at the nearest sign of a disturbance, either. Well, not more so than he always was. He wasn’t sure his life would ever be free of that instinct. He was too far gone for that, and too far gone to want it any other way.

“And you don’t,” Felix countered, "but look who’s standing here offering the cigarettes.” Wash huffed a small breath that might have almost been a laugh as he reached for the lighter Felix offered. “I just grabbed them from some guys at the gym, anyway,” Felix told him. “If I had them on me last night it would have been a different story.”

Wash wasn’t really paying attention. He found himself scanning the room impulsively, eyeing the ceiling for any detectors or alarms. Admittedly, he’d only seen in very certain, highly populated areas, but it didn’t quash his desire to check for himself.

“It’s fine,” Felix assured him, a mouth full of cigarette smoke. He tilted his head back too, but instead to blow smoke rings, several impressive looking circles forming in the air in front of him. Wash watched them with reserved curiosity. He kept quiet, but Felix glanced at him and followed his gaze to the dissipating circles. His eyes dropped back to him. “I can try and teach you how to do it.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s easy." He blew several more to prove his point. “Or are you as averse to fun as they say you are?”

The atmosphere in the room dropped quickly, and Felix looked an odd combination of distraught and annoyed at himself.

“Do you ever realise you have an uncanny ability to say the wrong thing?" he questioned, as if he was thinking aloud. "Because _honestly_ , try and say two fucking sentences when you’re me, and I guarantee you’re gunna fuck something up big time.”

Wash just waited. His patience for trust and giving people chances was already gone, blown to oblivion by Tucker, regardless of whether either of them knew it. It came down to whether Felix could say the right thing to explain himself or not. The _or not_ involved Wash walking right out the door. He wasn’t sure whether Felix would be bothered by that — he was sure he would let him without too much of a fight, but yet, he’d made enough effort to talk to Wash so far that Wash wanted to doubt it.

“Alright, look, hear me out—”

“It’s not the first time you’ve said something like that,” Wash cut in. “The first time I properly talked to you. After the… when we were outside the room. You said, _the rumours about you are true._ What does that mean? And you’ve referenced your ties to Locus— how close are they?”

Felix looked surprised, then suspicious. “ _Why?”_

“Because he knows something about me that nobody should, and I want to know how he knows it. I want to know what you know about me, and what he knows, and _why_ he has an interest in me.”

Wash’s words were punctuated by several steps forward, his cigarette held loosely between his fingers, forgotten about. 

Felix didn’t step back, but he looked like he was fighting the urge to, clearly unnerved by the turn of events. He swallowed, then inclined his head. “Makes sense, I guess. I would want to know the same.”

“Do you know that he cornered me the other day?” Felix nodded again. “And do you know what happened?”

Hesitation, then another nod.

“Then you can tell me why.”

“Fine,” Felix said, almost immediately, and Wash frowned to cover his surprise. “Look, whatever you think, my relation with Locus isn’t very deep. You know how I said he essentially runs the room at the back of the gym, and uses me as the scapegoat?”

This time Wash was the one to hesitate, but eventually, he nodded too.

“I wasn’t lying. He doesn’t tell me— I don’t know much about what goes on with him. I know some things, of course, and I can answer a few of your questions, but you’ve gotta believe me that I don’t have as much to do with him as you apparently think I do.”

“That’s not what Tucker says,” Wash responded, before he could think about it.

That gave them both pause.

“Well—” Felix started, but cut himself off when Wash turned his glare on him. He held his hands up. “Look, I don’t really know what’s the deal with that either, but I’d love to be filled in. Kinda makes a guy curious when you flinch every time someone’s name is said.”

Wash hadn’t even been aware he’d been doing it.

“Tell you what,” Felix said, innocently. “I answer some of your questions, you answer some of mine.” When Wash visibly withdrew, Felix hurried to elaborate, and it was that more than his actual explanation that reassured Wash he had some control over the situation. “Nothing big. Sort of what you’re interested in— what’s been said about me, what you know, or _think_ you know, I should say,” he pointed out emphatically. “I’m not going to be asking you anything I don’t think is relevant. Just stuff to get us on even ground. Sound good?”

“It sounds like trouble."

“And what if it is?” Felix challenged. When Wash met his gaze defiantly, he leaned back, lifting his cigarette to his lips again almost absentmindedly. “So, are we agreed, or are you gunna walk off? Because really, after this, that’d be a pain in the ass.”

Wash’s response was instant. “Why?”

Felix groaned. “This again?”

He was a little put off, but Wash conceded that point. “Fine,” he said, somewhat tersely. “Answer my questions first.”

“Run them by me?”

As soon as the question was in the air, Felix sighed and backed up a step until he was leant against the basketball rack. Then, to Wash’s surprise, he slid down it until he was sitting on the ground. He crushed his cigarette butt carelessly into the ground, then flicked it away, and Wash was reminded again of the differences between him and the little information Wash had of everything and everyone else in the juvie. His mind flicked to Grif, and how he carefully put them out on his own skin, and meticulously hid the evidence from sight.

He looked again at the cigarette butt lying on the floor where Felix had flicked it, and just like that, his curiosity was sparked. He found himself walking slowly over to where Felix was sitting, cautious but determined. Aware of Felix’s sharp eyes following his every move, he stopped when he was directly opposite him, then mimicked the other boy’s actions and slid down to the ground. With the racks protruding from the walls in the already very small room, their feet nearly touched.

Felix quirked an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he mused.

He offered him the pack, and Wash took it, glancing down at the nearly finished stub in his own hands as he did. 

“So,” Felix began, when they had lapsed into silence, “what’s your first question?”


	17. job's eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more felix, more questions answered, more questions created, and soon wash will get back to tucker.
> 
> in some optimistic news, only 3 more essays and an exam and in about a month ill be free. also, this fic is over a year old. holy shit.  
> in other other news, i'm climbing class trash and i wrote a fic for until dawn so that'll be a thing uploaded soon. 
> 
> thank you so so much for everything!  
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr <3

For several seconds, they sat in silence, while Wash debated over it. Absentmindedly, he flicked the remaining ash from his finished cigarette and crushed it out — not into the floor, like Felix had, but into the black metal of the rack he was leaning against, to hide the ash marks. Felix chewed on his lip and watched him. As he went through the motions of lighting his next cigarette, Wash refused to meet his eye, instead focusing his gaze on his hands as he pocketed the butt of the old one, his lips clamped tightly around the new.

As soon as it was lit, he took a deep drag in, and offered Felix the pack back.

“Keep it,” Felix told him, looking amused. “You look like you need it.”

“Thanks,” Wash muttered, though he wasn’t sure it was meant to be a gift.

“No problem.” Felix still had that same tone to his voice. “So—”

“My weakness,” Wash interrupted, before he could ask, “What do you think it is?” When Felix didn’t say anything for several long seconds, Wash elaborated. “You said that everyone has something that fucks them up. You also said you know what mine is. So, go ahead.”

“Okay, hold on, I said I knew something _about_ yours. And that was literally just referencing the whole freak out over my place earlier.”

Wash cocked his head. “You call it _your_ place.”

“Yeah, well, everyone does. Better than calling it _the place Locus runs but pins on me in case we ever get in any trouble for it_ , don’t you think?”

“No,” Wash said, without a moment of hesitation, then barrelled on. “What part exactly do you play in it?”

“Alright, hold on, what part of this game made you think I was just going to answer all of your questions at once? I’ve answered two, now answer some of mine.”

Wash hesitated. “It depends,” he said, warningly, and Felix scoffed.

“We went through that. Thanks for the reminder though. Okay. Question one.”

Wash waited, but after nearly a minute where Felix didn’t speak up, he opened his mouth.

“Uh!” Felix interrupted, holding one hand up and miming a _zip it_ motion. “Nope. Shut it. I’m thinking.”

“I didn’t get a proper answer,” Wash ground out.

Felix looked offended, and allowed the digression. “Okay, what do you call the answers I just gave you, then? I said one, I don’t exactly know, _and_ I explained my thought process behind that, so really that’s a bonus—”

“Except—”

“ _And_ I elaborated upon your second question, which was _basically_ a question because it required a response that shed light upon it. Ergo, it counts, you asked two questions, and you owe me two answers. So hold on.” Wash tensed his jaw, but waited. “Okay, got it.” Felix lifted one finger. “Question one. Do you think I’m cute?”

The silence he got in response was deafening, but he was the one to break it, bursting into laughter that, when Wash didn’t react, he desperately tried to repress.

“I’m sorry,” he began, still fighting a smile, “I couldn’t help it. You look so _serious_ , I just wanted to lighten it up a bit.”

“Do you have a question or not?” Wash snapped.

Felix’s laughter died, and the amusement slowly faded from his face. He watched Wash for a few moments, and when he blew out his next breath of cigarette smoke, the last traces of it were gone. “Alright, fine. For real. I want to know what you’ve been told about me. What _bullshit_ Tucker’s been spreading.”

Wash leaned back, surprised to say the least, but didn't get a chance to speak before Felix did again.

“And if you ask why I care, then this is done, and the deal’s off.”

“Alright,” Wash agreed mildly, carefully keeping the surprise from his face. He had to swallow down his impulse to question _that_ statement, too, because Felix looked as serious as he’d seen him all day, and a small part of Wash wondered how bad he could be if he really cared that much what people thought about him, after all. “He hasn’t said much. Hasn’t really actually told me anything about you,” he began, then hesitated, glancing at him, and Felix caught on. Before he could demand him to continue, Wash did, of his own volition. “He said you two shared a cell.”

Felix tensed. “And?”

Wash shook his head. “That’s it. Just that he despises you, for what reason he won’t tell me and I haven’t asked, but that it has to do with you two sharing a cell.”

“I don’t believe that.” When Wash's head immediately shot up, Felix shook his head, waving his hand at him in annoyance and taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Not _you_. I believe you. I just can’t believe he hasn’t taken the opportunity to slander my name yet.”

“Why would he do that?” 

“Usually I’m the first person he speaks up against. He’s never hesitated to tell anyone something bad about me before.” He stopped, eyed Wash curiously. “I wonder what’s different about you.”

“I don’t think,” Wash began, hesitantly, unsure, “that doesn’t sound like Tucker—”

“I know what’s different,” Felix interrupted, snapping his fingers, but he didn’t take his eyes away from Wash’s. “It’s the same thing that _I_ can see. He knows you’re observant. He can’t get away with the same shit he does with everyone else.”

It was Wash’s turn to shake his head. “I can tell when he’s lying. And everything,” he said, slowly, “everything he’s mentioned to do with you has been bad. He won’t say exactly what, but—”

“Of course he doesn’t say exactly what,” Felix sneered. “The less you actually say, the more is left to the imagination, and the more believable it is. It doesn’t sound like a lie when nothing’s actually been said.”

“But I know when—”

“Do you?”

Wash cut off, abruptly, his eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

Felix dropped his gaze, focusing on the floor. “How much do you really know about him, anyway?” he asked, so softly Wash barely heard it, but he recoiled anyway.

When Felix looked up at him, peeking at him through his lashes, Wash just stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

“Sorry,” he said, and flicked ash off his cigarette. “That was… insensitive. I don’t know what’s going on with you two, so if I crossed any lines unintentionally...”

Wash couldn’t help but think that was why he’d said it. But that thought was overshadowed almost immediately, replaced by the resounding, undeniable fact that when it came down to it, Felix was right. Wash knew next to nothing about Tucker. Why he was here, what secrets he held — there was so much he didn’t know about him, so many questions gone unanswered.

No, he thought, as he raised his eyes to the boy sitting cross legged opposite him, he knew practically nothing about Tucker.

But Felix did.

“How long has Tucker been fighting there?” he asked, his tone devoid of emotion.

Felix froze. “Fighting there?” he asked when he recovered. A surprised laugh escaped him. “Of course he doesn’t fight there, he—“

He was suddenly staring at Wash, shocked. It took several seconds for him to reign himself in long enough to recover, but not before Wash swore he saw the corner of his lips begin to curl upwards.

“He _what_?” Wash ground out. His heart beat oddly fast and he tried to pretend he didn’t know that he shouldn’t be asking these questions.

Felix opened his mouth, then tilted his chin upwards, looking down at Wash as if he was speechless. “He didn’t tell you, obviously,” he finally said, settling on the words with what looked like great difficulty.

Slowly, Wash shook his head.

“Oh, no,” Felix said, simply.

Wash immediately bristled. “What does _oh no_ mean?” he demanded, and he pulled himself onto his knees, subconsciously moving to box Felix in. Felix was on his feet in a split second, backing out of range, but Wash shadowed him.  “What does it _mean?”_  he repeated, seconds behind on instinct alone and cornering him against the racks.

It wasn't until Felix raised his fists in a perfect mimic of Wash’s own defense mechanism that Wash stopped. It took Felix a few moments to realise he was no longer being boxed in, but when it registered, he darted away instantly, and a thick tension of mistrust settled in the space between them.

Guilt twisted in Wash’s gut. “I didn't mean to do that—”

“Don’t ever fucking pull that shit on me,” Felix said, flatly.

For a split second, he wondered whether this was the same boy who’d met him at the ring. There was no wolfish smile, no predatory gaze, no interested _hunger_ to test him, push him, and find out more. Not even a cocky grin. Instead there was a boy in front of him, with curled fists and mistrustful eyes, and Wash saw himself. That stunned him enough to keep him from speaking, and silence sung until Felix spoke over it.

“Game’s over,” Felix muttered, pushing past him, and just like that the moment was gone. “We’re done here.”

Wash’s stomach lurched, and he stared after him as Felix moved towards the door.

“You can keep the lighter, too,” he tossed over his shoulder, looking back long enough to meet Wash’s eyes. His hand was on the door handle by the time Wash collected himself enough to respond.

“Felix, wait,” he said, and Felix paused, still facing away. “I didn’t mean to do that. I apologise.”

“Whatever,” Felix scoffed, but he turned back around to face him. He didn’t let go of the handle. “Seriously, I’m done with it.”

“That’s fine,” Wash said, quickly.

His mind was racing. If Felix left, he’d be alone, and he’d have nowhere to go. He wasn’t ready to face the others yet, not ready to face _Tucker_ , especially after the lockdown. He knew they’d have questions, and if he had answers, he wasn’t ready to give them, either. And he wasn’t done here, not yet. He had questions to ask, and even though it was evident Felix was finished with it, he wasn’t, and he knew there was the potential to find more information. He’d been so close, the question on the tip of his tongue, the desire that felt like it had settled on him, always in the background of his mind, the need to know _why is Tucker here?_

Felix could give him that answer. He didn’t know how he was so sure, but he was, and with that came the certainty that he would ask Felix. Sooner or later, he would, and then… He didn’t know what happened then. Still, beneath that, beyond his primary objective, a small part of him clung on to the distraction that was Felix with something a little more.

He realised Felix was watching him, but he couldn’t figure out what to say, and it became clear to Felix that he wasn’t going to say anything else.

Felix sighed. “ _I apologise,_ ” he repeated Wash’s words mockingly, scoffing. “You sound like such a douche.”

Wash stiffened, but then relaxed, because Felix finally let go of the handle and moved back to him.

“Fine. But I’m out of things to do, so unless you have some grand idea…” he trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Wash, who hesitated.

“I don’t… I’m not very acquainted with the unofficial ongoings around here, yet." Felix’s other eyebrow raised to meet the first. “I follow the schedule each day,” Wash muttered, somewhat defensively.

Felix huffed out another scoff. “That doesn’t surprise me. Well, it is a Tuesday, school would be on. And it’s gotta be at least…” he cracked his neck, apparently thinking, then shrugged. “Fuck, just past lunch time? They don’t exactly let you out first thing when you’re in solitary. But then, they don’t normally only put you in for one night, either.”

Wash tilted his head, a wordless invitation for him to go on.

“Well, usually it’s for a half week, minimum, but _usually_ they have a better reason for throwing you in there than causing an accidental lockdown. The only reason we got put in there was to sort through  _what the fuck happened,_  and because causing a lockdown is punishable by solitary under any circumstances.”

“You sound acquainted with it,” Wash edged.

Felix rolled his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. What gave it away? Was it when I could warn you practically word for word about what to expect during questioning?”

“Well, yes, and also that the guard mentioned last night that you looked familiar, and—” He was interrupted by Felix rolling his head back and knocking it against a metal grate, loudly.

“It was a joke. You know, for someone so intelligent, you really are slow on the uptake.”

“Intelligent,” Wash murmured, rolling the word around on his tongue.

Felix paused, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth to chew on, then leaned off the wall. “Anyway. So, we’re stuck in this stuffy little room, and neither of us have any idea what to do. Hey, we could play I spy,” he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I— what?”

A groan. “Wow. You know, uh, forget it. It’s not what it sounds,” he said, when Wash looked at him suspiciously. “It’s like a kid’s game. You didn’t play it where you’re from?” Wash shook his head. “Never played it on long car rides, or taught it to your family? Wow, you’re _so weird_ ,” he continued, without waiting for an answer, and it was clear he was making a mockery, but Wash wasn’t sure who he was mocking.

“I don’t…”

“Forget it. Actually, no.” Felix rounded on him, and Wash eyed him warily. “You ever wished you had a _normal_ childhood?”

Wash waited, but it became evident he was waiting for an answer. “I suppose,” he said, hesitantly.

“So you _didn’t_ have one.” Felix looked at him. “Never got a loving mom and dad, raised in a big old house, school every day?”

Wash just shook his head. So much of that was foreign to him. Felix looked at him, his eyes sharper, and the sudden, almost _aggressive_ shift to the conversation hadn’t gone amiss on Wash. But, as it reached to the point where he wanted to speak up, Felix seemed to back down, and the beginnings of the tense atmosphere faded.

“I have _so_ many questions about you,” Felix simply said, and laughed.

“Did you?” Wash asked, ignoring him, and Felix knew immediately what he was asking.

A short moment passed, indecision dancing in the air thickly as Felix weighed his words, before he responded. “I did, actually. Had it all.”

The obvious question reared up, but Wash didn’t even consider asking it. He had curiosity about Felix, unquestionably, but he had a comfort zone and good instincts and they combined into the doubtless decision to stop asking without him ever thinking about it. When Wash simply stayed silent, Felix laughed again.

“I like you,” he decided, as if it was something that had suddenly struck him. “I’m sorry it took me so long to finally man up and try and talk to you. And even sorrier that we met under those circumstances.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Well, I am,” Felix shrugged. “And I don’t know when I’ll be able to talk to you next, so I want to make it clear that if we meet again, I want it to be under good circumstances.”

“Why do you—”

“Locus,” Felix said, as if that was the answer to all of Wash’s questions. “Still not keen on you, but he’ll come around. Not to mention your Tucker.”

Wash's heart thumped unsteadily.  _His Tucker_. “I didn’t _do_ anything,” he muttered, fighting down the redness that threatened to creep up his chest. "I don't understand why Locus..."

Felix shook his head, and Wash could feel his sharp eyes watching the blush reach his neck. “It’s hard to explain.”

“You know why he doesn’t— why he’s…” Wash trailed off, then made emphatic gestures.

Felix laughed. “Like I said, yeah, but it’s hard to explain. In time, I will. I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t tell you _everything_ just yet. No offense, but I don’t exactly have full trust in you.”

Wash reeled back, then looked as if he was going to argue, offended that _Felix_ was implying that _he_ was the untrustworthy one.

Felix intervened. “It’s not just because of before. It’s just, I don’t know anything about you. For all I know, you’re talking to me only to find out information.”

Wash’s mouth twisted, because that was more accurate than he'd realised, and he was surprised that Felix had painted it in a light like it was a bad thing. It was clear that Felix obviously hadn’t _really_ considered it like that, and it spiked guilt into Wash’s stomach. Considering the effort that Felix had made to even talk to him, Wash hadn’t really thought twice about trying to glean all the information he could. There had been something, but he’d pushed it aside to focus on finding out more, and now he felt the strange, guilty repercussions of it.

He realised he hadn’t responded, and Felix was looking at him. He waited, but the silence had stretched out too long and left him with no words, so Felix spoke yet again.

“You hungry?”

Wash blinked, shut his mouth, then opened it again. “Yes,” he said, before he could consider the implications.

Felix laughed. “Yeah, I hear that. Want some food?”

“You said it's probably past lunchtime,” Wash responded hesitantly. “I doubt we could, now.”

“Well I mean sure, if you’re talking about getting food from the cafeteria, but that’s more for chumps who don’t have their own supply of food, you feel?”

Wash considered it. “Where is it?” he asked, warily, and Felix hesitated.

“Yeah,” he said slowly, “that might be a bit of a problem.”

“I’m not—”

“You don’t need to! You can just wait in the gym. Or, if you’d prefer, you can wait here, and I’ll bring some back.” Felix blinked at him when Wash just looked at him in surprise. “What? I mean, if you’ve got other things you’d rather be doing, I can go—”

“No,” Wash said quickly. “I was just… deciding.” Felix waited. “I’ll walk to the gym,” he said, finally. Then he frowned. “But I’m _not_ —“

“Going in, yeah, I know. No one's asking you to. Now come on, I’m starving.”

Felix cocked his head in the direction of the door, and Wash licked his lips before swallowing his hesitation down and moving towards it, tightening his grip around the handle once he held it and pulling it open.

Empty hallway. Good.

“The guards around here…” he started. “They don’t care? About…?”

“Oh, they do,” Felix laughed, his voice louder now they weren’t clearly breaching any rules. “Care more than most other guards, actually.” He took Wash’s confused frown as the unspoken question that it was. As they began walking, he leaned in. “We bribe them,” he whispered, conspiratorially, then tilted his head back and laughed.

“With what?” Wash couldn’t help but ask.

Felix rubbed his thumb and middle finger together. When Wash didn’t react except to blink at him, then frown at his hand in confusion, he sighed and dropped the gesture. “The same thing everything else around here is traded for?” he prompted. Wash shook his head, and it was Felix’s turn to frown. “Haven’t you made any trades yet?”

“I, uh, was given a towel once. By Donut.”

Felix laughed, but didn’t take his eyes off him as they walked, apparently not needing to watch where he was going as they navigated back down the hallways they’d passed through on their way here. Something about it drew Wash’s attention, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.

“You actually haven’t made any trades?” Felix started, then abruptly cut himself off. “Oh, fuck, you don’t— shit. That’s right.”

Wash cocked his head, but Felix shook his own in response, instead picking up his pace so he didn’t have to look at him.

“We trade in cash,” he finally elaborated. “It’s about all we have to offer that guards actually want. As you’d imagine, working at a place like this on a planet like Blood Gulch doesn’t exactly support the dream of luxury.”

Wash took a moment to piece his words together, then nodded. “And they stay away?”

“Sure do,” Felix said, and there was a small hint of pride to his tone. His pace picked up even more, but not in any hurry — almost as if he was flaunting it. “As far as we want, too,” he grinned, and there was that flash of teeth again. "Or if they have to be here, they keep their eyes down and their mouths shut. It's always the same four anyway, and we've got them under our thumbs."

His expression was lost from Wash’s view as he pushed open the double doors to the gym, striding through. He wordlessly directed Wash to a corner, closer to the white door at the back than he would have liked, but he didn’t have a chance to argue before Felix was walking off, making a beeline for the door Wash wanted to avoid.

“Be ten seconds,” he assured, before he opened the door just a crack and slipped through.

As he watched Felix stride away, his head up and arms relaxed by his sides, Wash realised what it was that struck him as off earlier, what thought had slipped into his subconscious and lodged itself there.

Even though he’d claimed Locus owned the place, Felix walked with a familiar arrogance that told Wash this was _his_ territory.

* * *

Surprising for Wash, he wasn’t the one to excuse himself first. It was Felix who stood and stretched, brushing remnant crumbs from his shirt and shrugging at him.

“I think I’m probably due back,” he admitted, and Wash just looked up at him for a moment before getting to his feet. “Locus will want to talk to me before dinner, get answers, all that. By now he’ll know the lockdown last night was related to me, and he won’t be happy that I didn’t come to him straight away.”

That drew some parallels to Wash’s own situation. He knew that if he wanted to talk to anyone, he’d have questions he’d need to answer, even though he had a thousand of his own first.

“Will you be alright?” he asked, because Felix was waiting for him to say something. He regretted it when Felix raised his head and looked right at him, but instead of reacting badly, narrowing his eyes, or withdrawing — any of the reactions Wash had come to expect — he just laughed.

“I’ll be perfect, could you expect any less?” he returned. “Really, it’s fine — he’d be worried, but respecting my space because he knows I hate it when he comes after me.”

“Right,” Wash said, though he thought of ten responses before he disregarded them, including a very Tucker-esque illumination of the certain phrasing Felix had used.

But he didn’t voice them, because he didn’t want to admit how comfortable he’d gotten. While they’d eaten, they’d talked, and it had taken a good half an hour for them to finish the assortment of food that Felix had apparently been hoarding from the commissary. He was aware that during the few hours he and Felix had spent alone — and what a thought that was, considering the rocky start they’d faced — he’d relaxed, allowed some of his defenses to fall and some of his more relaxed nature shine through.

Felix seemed to love it, laughing in delight whenever Wash made a joke, encouraging his sarcastic comments and grinning whenever he did anything that Felix approved of. The easy going atmosphere eventually got through to him, and he found himself ignoring the impending eventuality of facing Tucker and the others in favour of talking with Felix.

And they  _talked_.

Not about matters of interest, though Wash tried at first to circle around to them until he was satisfied; when Felix kept cutting him off, he resigned himself to dropping it. Nor did Felix want to talk about Locus, despite his apparent interest in Wash, instead brushing it off as “Nothing to worry about,” and insisting Wash wasn’t in any danger.

_“He’s just interested. He won’t come after you again, I know that much.”_

_“How?”_

_“He was testing something. But I think he found something more interesting.”_

_“That’s… not reassuring.”_

_“It’s not? It’s the truth.”_

Wash had paused, and Felix changed the conversation before he even realised it.

It was almost like being with Tucker, in a distant way — they didn’t run out of things to talk about, and his mind hadn’t wandered. He’d enjoyed the conversation, and the company, which seemed surreal considering the anger that had burned in him when he’d first really set his eyes on Felix outside the door at the back of the gym. The Felix from then seemed a million miles away, dissipated behind cheeky laughs and mischievous grins and a certain atmosphere of relaxation, and behind the distraction he’d provided, allowing Wash to forget himself.

He wondered how much of Felix was really the front he’d been given at the gym, and what was what he was being shown now. Time had flown, and Wash only realised it when Felix had stood and stretched, and began to excuse himself. He zoned in when he heard Felix saying something.

“This was fun,” Felix said, and Wash blinked.

“It was,” he heard himself agree.

“Do it again sometime?” At Wash’s hesitation, Felix’s smile dropped. “Seriously? Did we not—”

“Soon,” Wash interrupted him. “I actually did enjoy it.”

“Should I be insulted that you sound surprised?” Felix asked, but the smile had returned, and Wash knew he wasn’t being serious. “No, I get it. I’d be the same. But hey, we’re here now, and that’s what counts.”

“Thank you,” Wash said, the words slipping out before he was aware of them.

Felix didn’t even look his way. “No problem. Like I said, fun. Hey, you want to sit with us at dinner tonight?” The question came as a surprise to Wash, and he must have shown it, because Felix turned back to eye his reaction with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t have to,” he pointed out.

Wash considered his options. If he went to dinner, he’d be expected to face Tucker and Grif and the others, at their table. But if he went with Felix, he knew the trouble he was asking for. Felix read through him.

"f you change your mind, you know where we sit.”

 _The same table that had boys purposefully knocking into ours earlier,_ Wash thought, but he didn’t voice it, simply nodding.

Felix shrugged. “Alright. Good luck, then.”

“Thanks,” Wash murmured, and Felix mockingly saluted him, a lazy grin curling on his lips before he opened the door and disappeared out.

Wash stood in the empty room for a few more moments before he followed. Felix was already halfway down the hall, his back to Wash, but he lifted his hand and gave him a flick of his fingers in what Wash supposed was meant to be a final, halfhearted wave. It would have made him smile, but the realisation that he couldn’t avoid the impending scene ahead had settled over him, leaving him jittery and nervous. Almost as soon as he recognised that, the reminder nudged at him that  _he_ was the one who had every right to be angry, to be upset, and he swallowed down his nerves to force himself to settle into his familiar, blank façade.

He strode down the halls, and tried not to think about seeing Tucker. As it turned out, he didn’t make it to the mess hall. He strode steadily forward until he reached the double doors, and the second before he reached out to push them open he found himself spinning on his heel. He walked away, with no idea what he was doing, where he was going, but driven by the knowledge that he couldn’t face them and talk about something like this over dinner. It was too open.

More than that, the realisation that he  _only_  wanted to talk to Tucker. He couldn’t stand the thought of sitting there for an hour, either in silence or bombarded by questions that he didn’t feel like answering, with eyes on him and curious glances and him in the dark about what Tucker had told the others about what had happened. He assumed, rather than knew, that they’d have questions — assumed that Tucker would have told them that he was the cause for the lockdown. Either way, he hadn’t been with them all day, hadn’t gone anywhere where they would have seen him.

He wanted to know, too, whether they’d wondered about him, or if they’d searched for him, because he knew he would have searched for Tucker. He assumed they hadn’t. It didn't matter in the end, he supposed. If he had to explain where he’d been, he didn’t want to see their reaction. Tucker’s hatred for Felix was obviously no secret, and it was clear the others didn’t hold any particular soft place for him either. It wasn’t something he wanted to discuss, wasn’t something he wanted to subject himself to, but something he knew he eventually would have to do.

As he considered that, he realised something: that despite the fact that he’d asked so many questions, nudged so much for answers, and despite how much he and Felix had talked, he didn’t feel like he’d walked away knowing anything more. In fact, it felt like somehow, Felix had managed to not only leave him with even more questions than he’d started with, but he’d managed to elicit information from him, too. Wash didn’t like that idea — looked back on it, picked apart all the times he’d let information slide that he hadn’t intended to, and wondered why he didn’t feel like he regretted it at the time but he did now.

Felix was… something. Something that Wash was wary of, but that he was still somewhat drawn to, and maybe that was because he didn’t understand him. That begged the question about whether he  _wanted_ to, whether maybe getting to know more about Felix was something that bode well for him. At the very least, he reminded himself, their relationship could become an information trade. A little dirty, on his side, because when he let himself think about the answers Felix must have about Tucker, the information he could give that would satisfy the perpetual curiosity in the back of his mind, he felt conflicted. Apprehensive.

Felix could answer a lot about Tucker, and maybe over time, he would. Wash knew enough that he recognised that as crossing some unspoken lines. Finding out things about someone behind their back, without their  _consent_ , without their knowledge — it was exactly what Simmons had done to him on his first days here, and the echo of his anger then made itself known in his conscience now. Even Felix hadn’t asked about any information that didn’t regard himself.

So if Wash did ask, pried into Tucker’s life, it was playing dirty. That was enough to make him feel guilty for even considering it, but a part of him wanted to say that with all the secrets that were held between them, it was clear that Tucker had been playing far from fair himself. This all went through his mind as he walked away from the mess hall.

How much longer could he avoid them? The question plagued him. How much longer could he blatantly try and escape the prospect of running into them?

After showers, he decided. Until it was just he and Tucker alone in the cell. All he wanted to do was talk to Tucker, even if at the same time, he didn’t, so he would take a step at a time.

 _Tucker first_ , the rest of it later.

With an idea of what he was doing, he relaxed, slowed his pace so that he was dawdling more than anything. He didn’t like the look of the first guard he passed, so he turned around until he was heading towards the more populated areas, and was hit with the wish that he had somewhere to go. Grif had the key to the cell in D-block. The roof seemed cold and unwelcoming without anyone to go with him. He wasn’t sure he was brave enough to try and enter one of the classrooms.

Except, when he put a hand on the door handle and glanced surreptitiously around before opening it and darting inside, apparently he was. Ordinarily, he might not have been able to, but something within him was driving him forward, dictating his movements so that he wasn’t even sure what he was doing until he was doing it. He found the darkness that he entered into within the classroom didn’t fill him with fear and discomfort, the light from underneath the door proving enough to distinguish shapes and shadows and instill a small sense of relief.

He found himself settling against the cabinet next to the door, instinctively drawing as near as possible to the light despite his conscious lack of discomfort. He crossed his legs and let his hands lie loosely in his lap, and before he knew it, he was in a position that echoed one he’d spent years of his life in. A familiarity washed over him, a fragile blanket of comfort, and he realised this was what he’d been seeking.

When he was surrounded by insecurity and indecision, when the stepping stones he tentatively perched on proved rocky beneath his feet, he needed stability, something to ground himself with, something to help him keep holding himself together.

So he leaned back, cleared his mind, and like he’d spent so much of his previous years doing, he closed his eyes and settled in the dark room, unmoving.

* * *

It didn’t take long.

His eyes kept slipping open. He felt the urge to twitch with discomfort. Without conscious decision, he found himself shifting closer and closer towards the light. Eventually, his eyes snapped open, and he jumped to his feet. Whatever he’d gone into the small room looking for, he hadn’t found it, and he did his best to ignore the fact that he knew why. He knew the familiarity he longed for couldn’t come from a dark room and nothing but time to think, but from something else, some _one_ else, and he didn’t know if it meant anything that all he wanted right then was Tucker.

To talk to him, to hear his voice — even though Wash was still angry. But, more than that, he was confused, and he knew he would have given Tucker another chance to explain even if he hadn’t learned what he’d learned from Felix: that whatever Tucker did in the ring, it wasn’t fighting. That there had to be a reason Tucker couldn't tell him.

He felt himself slipping back into his thoughts, the questions making his head spin as he began to move more automatically than with conscious direction, so he forced them away with the reminder that he couldn’t figure anything out, couldn’t answer any of his questions until he could talk to Tucker.

He just had to wait until then, so he filled the time with showers.

* * *

One thing he hadn’t considered, he mused, as he pulled off his shirt in the dimly lit room, was that when he had people he knew around him, he was able to zone out the stares of other people. He’d never really showered alone, or without at the least  _somebody_ he could associate himself with, but he was quick to discover that it was surprisingly different. Part of it might have been his conscious paranoia following his meeting with Locus, some of it likely his dislike of being alone, but regardless of how well he could analyse the factors that comprised it, nothing could change the fact that all of a sudden, he was hyper aware of every set of eyes on him in a way he hadn’t been before.

He knew the scars on his body could be considered interesting — knew that they caught the eye, at the very least, incited staring at the most, and that he’d seen his own share of eye-catching scars in his years. It didn’t make it any easier when he felt like every second between beginning to pull his clothes off and hurrying to get them back on again had his nerves prickling and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Yet, there was nothing he could do to help it.

The realisation had come too late, after he’d rationalised his decision to leave the dark of the classroom with giving himself five minutes of refreshing cleanliness and a structured goal to follow. He’d skipped showers the night before, and the excitement at having access to running water, hot or not, still hadn’t worn off for him.

He just hadn’t factored in the lack of privacy, and how it would amplify how vulnerable he felt alone. He knew it stemmed from his paranoia, and he knew there was one way to fix it.

 _Just talk to him. No violence, no avoidance, nothing._  

He knew that when he arrived, Tucker would already be there. Wash had purposely slotted himself into the last group to enter showers, hovering at the back of the line until he’d seen everybody he recognised go through, so that he knew he couldn’t run into them accidentally if they were where they should be. Of course, that was a bit of a stretch. But the halls were emptying as he hurried through them, so he hoped that his plan would work. If Tucker was in there, Wash could walk in and go right up to him, and they could talk.

That was all Wash wanted. Answers — something to satisfy the burning confusion that rose up within him every time he permitted himself to think about everything that had happened between them. So far, between Felix and his own determined stubbornness, he’d been doing a good job of avoiding thinking about that. Even within the empty classroom, where he had peace and quiet and a chance to delve into his mind and think, he’d found himself thinking about nearly anything else. Mostly, his conversations with Felix. Analysing them, but only halfheartedly, not really searching for any real clues or answers.

He wanted to know what  _Tucker_ had to say. Wanted to know why, why he was going there and whyhe hadn’t told him, and why he hadn’t even tried to answer him when Wash had confronted him. It was different now. He’d get an answer, and if not —

He faltered. If not, he didn’t know what he’d do. Everything from before was rising to the surface: his uncertainty, his insecurities that he didn’t even know enough about to recognise them as such, his paranoia, all of it, everything that he didn’t want to face. He wasn’t sure, and he realised that past his desire to get answers was his tentative hope for reassurance. That maybe, somehow, this time around Tucker would have answers and an explanation and something to smooth it all over. And he let himself, as he reached their room, give into that hope just a little.

Until he realised that the room was empty. The questions that had already began bubbling up inside him faded, the name on his lips dying away as he stepped inside and realised Tucker wasn’t there. He span around, as if somehow, Tucker would be behind him.

“Tucker?” he called, softly, before he had a chance to stop himself.

But the bed above his own was made, somewhat messily, and it was clear Tucker hadn’t been in since this morning. Nervously, Wash sat on the edge of his bed, every semblance of a plan he’d had dissipated the moment he’d realised Tucker wasn’t inside. To give himself something to do, he kicked his shoes off, pushed himself back on his bed so that his back was against the wall and he was facing out, arms held loosely around his knees. When a figure came into view, he started to sit up, but Felix gave him the same wave he had earlier and entered his cell opposite them.

Wash leaned back, held himself a little tighter. His fingers tapped against his skin, and minutes passed, with no sign of Tucker.  _The cell doors will close any moment,_ he thought, and he barely resisted the urge to climb to his feet. A minute dragged by, then another, and Wash grew more and more on edge. Was this a trick? A poor attempt at payback for walking out last night?

“ _Tucker,”_ he whispered, frustrated and confused.

He hadn’t realised how badly he’d wanted to see Tucker again. One final, laughable thought ran through his mind as there was a resounding clang throughout the cell, signifying the beginning of the cell doors closing, and he jumped to his feet. With one hand, he clung to the edge of Tucker’s bed, and used his free hand to yank back his blanket. Tucker wasn’t there. He’d  _known_ Tucker wasn’t there, but the cell doors were sliding shut behind him and Tucker was nowhere in sight and he had no idea what to do.

Then the doors were closed, and it was just him, alone in his room without Tucker. Distantly, he heard guards begin their headchecks, and his head snapped up at the sound of the guard’s footsteps approaching steadily towards him. Wash wanted to call out to them, wanted to warn them about what they wouldn’t find inside, and he made it to the cell door and wrapped his hands around the cold metal before he recognised the guard walking past his cell.

The blue eyed guard who’d found them the night before leered out at him, and Wash shrunk away, his words dying in his throat as the baton clanged against the bars loudly. He watched, silent and wide eyed, as the guard continued onwards, stopping only to do the same to Felix’s cell, despite the fact that Felix was lounging on his bunk on the other side of the room.

_Did he not see?_

Wash pulled further away, his heart beating in his chest. They’d come back around, and the numbers wouldn’t add up, and then—

Then there’d be a lockdown, with sirens so loud they shook the floor and flood lights that painted everything the colour of blood. His throat was suddenly tighter, air harder to draw in. The cell was suddenly suffocatingly small, and as he backed away from the cell doors, his hands started shaking, and he wanted to go back and shout out at them that Tucker wasn’t here, where was he, something was terribly wrong—

Without even realising, he’d hunched himself into the corner, his body already trembling, fear for himself but more so for Tucker.

And he waited, for a lockdown that never came.


	18. hints and hesitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've spent the past few days writing flat out for this fic, and im happy to say ive been making some decent progress ! thank you endlessly for the support and kindness, genuinely <3  
> so -- upcoming, some perspective changes, which is fun to explore. i hope you enjoy!
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr <3

The lights turned abruptly on, signalling the arrival of six in the morning. It took several seconds for Wash to move, to blink his gritty eyes and begin flexing his stiff limbs, starting with a slow stretch of his arms before gradually shifting his weight unsteadily as he climbed to his feet. Blood rushed to his head, and he waited, blinking the dots that burst behind his eyes away until his vision was clear.

The noises of other inmates waking up around him registered in his ears, but he didn’t pay any heed, because there was nothing like that close to him, no familiar rustling of someone waking up in the bunk above his head, no muffled _thump_ as a pair of feet hit the ground in front of him. That knowledge weighing heavily on his chest, he ignored it, and pretended the room didn’t feel emptier than it ever had before.

Beyond the seemingly unnatural quiet of his own cell, the juvie came to life. Guards called to one another, and the low murmur of kids around him began to fill the air, and it was only when he set both his feet on the cold ground and looked around the empty cell that it completely sunk in. Tucker was gone.

For a long moment, Wash stood, the moment of perfect clarity rendering him motionless as he watched small specks of dust swirl around him, illuminated by the harsh lights. Tucker was gone. As if he’d never existed. No sign of his belongings, the few that he could have had. How? Where? _Why?_

Wash’s throat was tight. The room was so empty, and it had never seemed so foreboding and unwelcoming until now. Where _was_ he? What had happened? He couldn’t have escaped, couldn’t have run away. There was no chance the guards missed his absence in the headcount last night. The first guard had barely looked at him, but the second had. Wash could recall the way he’d hesitated, and his eyes had circled the room twice before dropping to the clipboard in front of him.

And then, without another word, he’d moved on. So Tucker was gone, but he hadn’t escaped. So where the hell was he? Could he have changed cells? Wash was thinking quickly, and he knew the answer to that as soon as the question had formed in his mind. Tucker had told him enough times that changing cells was basically impossible — the stories he’d regaled Wash with about Church, even about Felix, would have rendered the possibility obsolete even if Tucker hadn’t said it in as many words.

Was he—

The thought caught in his mind, short circuited him for a second, and he froze in the center of the room.

_Was he injured?_

Anything could have happened to him. The possibilities flew through his mind, left his blood pumping faster through his veins, as image after image flashed by of the fate Tucker could have met while Wash had been avoiding him. His fingers unwittingly curled into tight fists at his sides, and he clenched his jaw so hard that it hurt, but he couldn’t stop the ball of anxiety in his gut from spreading cold fingers of fear through his veins as the surety settled over him that Tucker could be hurt.

The next thing he knew, someone was calling his name. His head snapped up, his eyes seeking out the source of the sound even as he registered that the caller wasn’t who he’d hoped. It hadn’t been Tucker’s voice reaching out to him, but Felix’s, and he blinked several times when he realised he was staring at Felix with nothing separating them.

Felix gestured at him from the middle of the hallway.

“You okay, man?” he asked, one eyebrow arched. “You’ve been standing there for like, five minutes.”

Wash looked around. Kids were beginning to stream out into the hallway, headed towards the mess hall, and Felix was forced to either move forward into Wash’s room or move with the crowd. He chose the latter, with one last concerned look thrown Wash’s way before he began moving off. Wash was still staring after him when he caught a flash of red hair. It wasn’t Simmons, but the correlation was enough to make him pause, ideas forming in his head until a decision was made.

It took a few seconds for him to start moving, and all of his sheer force of will to go against his instincts and not wait until the stream of kids walking by had all but dissipated. Instead, he darted into it, too impatient to wait.

He kept himself as far to the side as possible and began weaving through, pushing past kids until he was at the intersection leading up to the mess hall. For a few seconds, he waited, looking around for any sign of anybody he knew, and weighed up the option of searching through the rest of the block for Grif and Simmons’ room against heading straight to where he knew they’d eventually be. With a final glance down towards the other section of the block, he turned towards the mess hall, and strode up to the doors.

He pushed through, and his relief at seeing Sarge at the table had him rushing forward. Unsteadily, he took his seat without getting a tray, nearly launching the chair over with how quickly he threw himself into it, and immediately opened his mouth to speak.

Sarge was faster.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked gruffly, and he put his spoon down to level Wash with a gaze that clearly said _no fucking around_.

Wash blinked, his unspoken question derailed before it could pass his lips.

Sarge continued on. “Fancy coming back here after your little disappearing act yesterday. Thought we’d seen the last of you, if we were honest.”

His tone was blasé, and it threw Wash off more than a little, but the reminder of Tucker’s absence was quick to demand his attention. He shook his head. “I’ll explain later,” he said in a rush. “Tucker’s—”

“Wash!”

He heard his name, Simmons’ voice registering as the shy caller, and Wash arched around in his seat to see he and Grif approaching. Without thinking, he to his feet to face them.

“You’re actually here,” Simmons said, looking surprised. “I— I didn’t think you’d turn up. Not after, I mean... You didn’t come see us all of yesterday.”

Wash opened his mouth, but at the painful reminder he closed it, and he glanced at Grif almost automatically, the wariness that had been sparked inside him at the connection—

 _“It’s you and Grif who are there every day_ —”

— rendering him silent momentarily. He pushed it away, and moved to speak again seconds later, but his words rolled off his tongue only to be drowned out by Sarge.

“Like a scared rat, if you ask me. Runs at the first sign of trouble.”

“Yeah, hold that story,” Grif said, and he and Simmons circled around him to head towards the steadily growing queue at the food counter. “Do you want some food or something? We can talk drama later, food now.”

Wash felt sick. “Tucker’s gone,” he heard himself say, louder than he had intended.

Slowly, he saw Grif and Simmons stop and turn back towards him.

“What do you mean, gone?” Grif asked, and he and Simmons shared a look.

“Gone,” he repeated, hoarsely, and it took a moment for his brain to catch up and help him explain. “He— he didn’t come back last night. He wasn’t there at all, he wasn’t in the cell last night. _He didn’t come back_.”

The table was silent, and Simmons and Grif closed the gap between them with mutual looks of concern.

“He’s gone,” Wash repeated, because nobody was saying anything.

Then Grif spoke up. “Uh, yeah, he’s still at his trial.”

Wash’s silence was deafening, his expression unreadable, so Simmons took it upon himself to tentatively elaborate.

“His trial date? It was yesterday?” he tried, then looked between Sarge and Grif for confirmation. “They won’t have him returned until afternoon, earliest. The paperwork’s a bitch, and they don’t exactly prioritise it.”

“I knew he wouldn’t just turn up out of the blue,” Grif muttered, turning to Simmons. “I told you.”

Wash ignored that. He felt the world stop and start around him, the information begging to be processed, but his mind rebelled. “What trial?” he asked, carefully, speaking over something Simmons was saying.

Simmons stopped, looked at him. “The trial! You know, for his case? “

Wash met his gaze, his eyes searching. “He’ll be back?” he asked, tentatively.

Everyone paused, watching him, and something unspoken passed between all of them but Wash.

“Yeah, he’ll be back,” Grif answered for him.

That seemed to break the dam wall in his mind, and a flood of questions poured out, danced through his conscious. Wash was unaware of how hard he was gripping the table edge in front of him, focused on getting answers.

“His trial—? He’s—”

“His trial, for his case! It’s just another regular old court date, that’s all! He’ll be back before the end of the day,” Simmons repeated.

His voice was more jumpy, catching onto Wash’s anxious state and reflecting it without realising. Before he could respond, Donut arrived, and announced his arrival with a loud greeting that aggravated the headache quickly building in Wash’s skull.

“Wash!” came the cheerful greeting, and he wordlessly slid into Wash’s side of the table.

That was when Wash realised he was the only one facing everyone else, but the gratitude he would have felt was lost under Donut’s rush of questions.

“Where _were_ you yesterday?” he demanded. “We were worried sick!”

“Speak for yourself,” Grif scoffed, and he gave him a dirty look that Washington didn’t miss.

Wash wasn’t sure what had changed, but he saw Simmons give Grif a knowing look of annoyance that told him he’d missed something. Donut chose that moment to interrupt.

“Jeez, how come nobody here has breakfast?” he asked, drawing their attention away. “Did Sarge ban Grif from eating in the same vicinity as him again? Except it’s all of you. Huh, that doesn’t make sense.”

Apparently, they’d decided that they’d answered enough of Wash’s questions, because nobody was paying attention to him anymore except for Sarge.

“You alright?” he finally asked, gruffly, and everyone’s attention returned to Wash. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Tucker’s fine,” Grif repeated, as if Wash was an idiot.

“Yeah, what’d you think happened?” Simmons asked, and he had a nervous, joking edge to his tone, but it fell flat when Wash remained silent.

A few seconds later, he lifted his gaze to Grif. “How do you know?” he asked, and Grif looked confused. “How do you know where he is, and that he’s okay?”

_How do I know you’re not lying to me?_

Donut made several small noises that went ignored.

“Because he has trial dates every few months? And this isn’t anything new? And he literally told us this would happen?” Grif’s voice was flat, unappreciative at the almost aggressive doubt that Wash was displaying towards him.

“He didn’t tell me,” Wash said, simply, and regretted the words the second they left his mouth.

Grif pulled back, his eyebrows lifting for a second before they lowered immediately, looking Wash over with an expression that was equally as suspicious as it was full of disbelief. He opened his mouth, still eyeing Wash curiously, but before he could voice his thoughts Simmons beat him to it.

“ _What?_ What do you mean, he didn’t tell you? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Grif spoke up anyway. “He didn’t tell you?” he repeated, tilting his head at him, as if drilling it in.

They seemed surprised by it. Evidently, they considered it something that Tucker would have told him.

“No,” he heard himself say instead, distantly. “No, he didn’t tell me.”

“That’s weird,” Donut piped up. “I’m sure he just didn’t get a chance since you were missing yesterday, for whatever reason.”

Wash had to swallow down his immediate response, but that had told him something — that Donut had no idea why he’d caused the lockdown the other night. He realised Sarge was watching him, who had adopted an expression eerily similar to Grif’s, but with more distrust evident in the narrowing of his eyes.

“He did say he was going to tell you yesterday,” he said, his voice gruff, and if Wash hadn’t caught onto the suspicion before, Sarge’s tone would have cued him in now. “But then you disappeared all day.”

Wash hesitated. He didn’t know if that meant Sarge knew or not.

“Yeah, we should be asking where _you_ were,” Donut said, effectively derailing him. “Come on, fill us in! Tell us all the juicy goss. Tucker was _so_ worried. It was so dramatic. Like an action movie!” Donut reached across the table and nudged Simmons. “Right, Simmons?” he prompted, apparently unhappy that nobody was as enthusiastic about it as him.

Simmons looked at Grif, then made a hesitant noise of agreement. “Yeah, when headcount started the whole block heard him banging on the cell bars and yelling that you were gone.”

Satisfied, Donut took back over. “And the next morning, before he left, he was all _I need to find Wash_ , and he told us not to stop looking for you until we found you! So romantic. I searched _all_ day. I can’t wait to find out where you were!”

Everyone’s gaze turned to Wash, and he hated it, felt his skin prickle uncomfortably under the weight of their combined stares. And the questions, the things he didn’t want to answer, his uncertainty — it wore at him, and his solution, as it always was, was to run.

“I need to go,” he said simply, and turned to leave. He needed somewhere quiet to think. To plan for what he could say when he found Tucker, even though—

“Uh, fuck off,” Grif said, and Wash stopped completely.

Slowly, he turned back around, surprise evident in his features and the hesitance of his movements. “Excuse me?” he managed, and Grif lifted an eyebrow in return.

“You heard me? I said fuck off. As in, don’t literally fuck off, but fuck off as in as if you think we’re just going to let you run away again.”

It took Wash a few seconds to comprehend that sentence, but when it sunk in, he felt himself tense. “You can’t prevent me from leaving,” he said, voice tight.

“Oh my god, _stop_ ,” Grif groaned, and pressed his fingers to his temples for a moment before pulling them away and looking wearily up at him. “I’m not threatening you, I just mean we don’t want to lose you all day again, especially when Tucker gets back. First thing he’s gunna want to do is speak to you, and that’ll be hard when you’re nowhere to be fucking found.”

“Really,” Donut chimed in, in agreement, “I want to know where you were yesterday. I’m telling you, I looked _everywhere!”_

Wash didn’t want to admit to the stab of guilt he felt, but it manifested in the way he slowly moved closer back towards them. Surprisingly, a small part of him hesitated at holding anything against Donut. If he was fair, the only person he could hold anything against would be Tucker.  _And Grif_ , a small part of him said, and he wasn’t even aware that he shifted to eye Grif warily.

Donut called his name. “You okay?”

Wash shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he began, but Sarge cut him off.

“Save it,” he said, then paused. “Actually, don’t. A blue, groveling? Go on.”

Wash grit his teeth in impatience. “Look. Just…” he started, then trailed off when he realised he didn’t have anything to say.

Just what _?_ He had no plan here.

 _Just tell Tucker_ — tell Tucker what?

 _Just forget it_ — and leave, and go where?

“Where are you in such a hurry to go, anyway?” Simmons asked, as if he read his mind. “Class doesn’t start for another half an hour, and I don’t know where else you would go.”

“Yeah, and like I said, Tucker will want to talk to you when he gets back,” Grif reminded. “I’m sure you have a lot to talk about.”

“And I _really_ want to know where you were yesterday!” Donut chimed in.

To Wash’s surprise, even Sarge lifted a hand and gestured to the seat Wash had recently emptied. “Why don’t you sit back down,” he offered, somewhat reluctantly.

That should have clued him in that something was going on, but all Wash was aware of was that they were all watching him, waiting for him. The combined weight of their gazes made his throat tighter, his argument dying down in his throat, so he put one hand on the back of the chair and slowly lowered himself onto it.

“Do you want me to go get you some breakfast?” Simmons offered. “Donut and I can bring back enough for everyone. Maybe you and Grif can have a little talk, Wash?”

“Sounds good,” Grif agreed easily, and Wash felt himself nodding when he turned his expectant gaze onto him.

As the two boys stood and began walking to the line, and Wash was left facing Grif and Sarge, he couldn’t help but feel like he’d been tricked.

“So,” Grif drew out, then leaned in and got straight to the point. “I hear some shit’s going down between you and Tucker.”

Wash stiffened, darted a nervous glance at Sarge, but the older boy watched him and said nothing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and it was partially the truth.

Grif snorted. “Between the lockdown the other night, which was caused by _you_ for reasons I’m sure you’d rather not discuss right now, then your little disappearing act, and now your freak out at Tucker’s disappearance because he didn’t tell you he was going to his trial date, which is pretty weird in itself,” he listed off, ticking them off on his fingers, “yeah, you could say shit’s pretty fucked.”

Wash hesitated, and Grif and Sarge waited, but it became apparent he wasn’t going to say anything.

“So what the fuck are you going to do?” Grif demanded, impatient.

Wash went to shrug, stopped. Opened his mouth and closed it again. Grif watched him, eyed his movements and tried to piece something together from them, but all he could figure out was that Wash had something to hide.

Which, from what Simmons had told him on the night, and what Tucker had told him the morning before he left, Grif already knew. Even if he hadn’t been clued in it wouldn’t have been hard to piece something together. While Grif didn’t give much of a fuck about it, he’d promised Tucker he wouldn’t let Wash do anything rash. He’d failed at that yesterday, when he hadn’t been able to find him, and he didn’t want to admit that to Tucker, let alone face the possibility that they might lose him again.

And Wash had already tried to leave once. Christ, it was like he’d signed up for babysitting duty.

Grif sighed, and the thought crossed his mind that he was temporarily glad Caboose was eating with Smith today, because otherwise he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it — loyalty be damned. Just keep Wash here until Tucker arrived. That’s all he had to do. Except he had Wash here, in front of him, with an open invitation to speak, and he still looked like he was seconds off of running.

Grif made an impatient noise. "Just tell me you’re gunna sort this shit out with no dramas, please. Believe it or not, we want to help,” he managed, before there was a clatter as Simmons and Donut returned, depositing the handful of trays they’d secured onto the table.

There were some jokes made as they passed them around, and Wash’s was left in front of him, but he made no move to take it.

“You want to help,” he repeated, and he lifted his gaze to look at Grif. “That’s what you said.”

“Sure was,” Grif said, then shared an exasperated look with Sarge.

“Why?”

“Why would we help you?” Simmons paraphrased, doubtfully.

“That’s a dumb question,” Donut said, digging his spoon into his bowl. “We’re friends, obviously! And friends help each other! And tell each other things that are happening,” he said meaningfully, and the connection to earlier, to Tucker keeping Wash in the dark, went right over his head.

It didn’t go over anyone else’s, and Simmons groaned.

Wash looked away, trying to hide his reaction to Donut’s words, but turned back a moment later. “So if I didn’t tell you things that were happening,” he began, “what would that mean? Would that make us… not friends?”

“No, of course not,” Donut backtracked, hurrying to assure him, “but _good_ friends would tell each other. Good friends don’t keep secrets! Unless they have to.”

“Allow me to add to that,” Simmons tried. “As in, let me completely rephrase what Donut just said, because it was stupid.”

“Why?” Donut asked, frowning. “What’d I say? I was just trying to get him to open up!”

“Don’t bother,” Grif sighed. “He’s not listening now anyway.”

He wasn’t wrong. Wash had pushed his porridge bowl away from him, and scooted further back in his chair. Grif wanted to groan in frustration. The effort they’d made to keep him here, to talk to him — and he was so quick to run off. True to his suspicions, Grif felt a stab of annoyance when Wash finally made the decision and began to stand. He didn’t look at any of them as he left his cooling porridge bowl on the table and began to walk off.

Donut frowned after him, then got to his feet and began to follow.

“Donut, wait! You don’t know where he’s going!” Simmons called.

“Shit,” Grif sighed. “Sarge, go after them. Donut doesn’t know that Wash found out about Felix’s. Keep an eye on them, try not to let them cause any more trouble.”

Sarge looked ready to argue, but Donut had nearly caught up with Wash at the double doors, so with one last glare in Grif’s direction he began striding after them.

“I’d love to count how many times that asshole has walked away from us already,” Grif said, as he and Simmons watched Sarge follow the two blonde boys out the double doors. “Doesn’t he know it’s fucking rude?”

“Sarge?” Simmons asked, frowning. “I don’t think he cares if it’s rude or not.”

“No, dickhead. Wash.”

“Oh. Well I mean, I wouldn’t want to put up with us either.”

Grif snorted, began pulling the left behind bowls of porridge towards him. “Good point. And I definitely prefer it when there’s less people here.”

Simmons nudged him. “So you get their food?”

“So I just get to talk to you,” Grif returned, but his mouth was full of porridge.

Simmons fought down a smile anyway. “You talk to me all night,” he pointed out, and earned a shrug in response.

“Where did he even go yesterday?” Grif asked, changing subjects. “That’s what I want to know.”

Simmons stretched and began picking at his bowl. “That’s a good question. Nowhere we know of, that’s for sure.”

“Does Tucker have some secret fucking hideyhole or something that he hasn’t shown us? I know he thinks I don’t remember the ceiling, but I don’t think Wash would have gone there.”

“Maybe he just didn’t get released until late,” Simmons tried.

Grif sighed. “Guess we’ll find out. Tucker’s bound to want to talk to him straight away, and then when they get all their shit sorted, guess who’s gunna have to hear about it from Tucker?”

He dropped the spoon to jab a finger at himself, and Simmons rolled his eyes. “Maybe if Tucker didn’t keep it a secret in the first place,” he pointed out.

Evidently, it was the wrong thing to say, because Grif let out an obnoxious groan. “Oh, here we go. Look, Simmons, do you have any idea how many secrets Tucker is keeping from him? Look how high strung the dude is. Now imagine if he found out half the shit Tucker got up to.”

“But he can’t keep—“ Simmons started.

“Why not? He’s saving drama.”

“It’s not _fair._ And it’s childish! Sometimes things are better left out in the open.”

“Who gives a fuck? At the moment, it comes down to two things: how things are going while Wash doesn’t know much, and how things will change when he does. Tucker’s obviously weighed it up, and you know, I’m half inclined to agree. In fact, I _do_ agree. That guy does _not_ handle things well!”

Simmons shook his head but let it go, and Grif took the victory ungracefully.

“Admit it. You would have done the same thing.”

The finger that was pointed in Simmons face was immediately slapped away. “ _No_. I just don’t have the energy to argue with you right now.”

That wiped the smile from Grif’s face, and Simmons felt warm at the concern that immediately made itself apparent.

“You not sleeping well again?” Grif asked, his eyebrows furrowing. He glanced around at the people eating around them, and quickly reached under the table to squeeze Simmons’ hand.

Simmons looked away, but Grif could see his neck heating up. “Just tired. And you’re right, drama can be exhausting.”

"Do you want to go somewhere and rest? Or maybe a little stress relief?”

Simmons went red. “But—“

“School can wait,” Grif said, and wriggled his eyebrows suggestively.

” _Grif!_ And what about Wash and Tucker?”

Grif scoffed. “What about them? Right now my primary concern is _you_.”

As much as he pretended he didn’t, Simmons had a weakness, and it came in the form of endless affection doted upon him by Grif whenever they had the chance.

“Only for a little while,” he caved. “I want to be at school by lunch. I know they’re going to notice that I’m missing, I know it.”

“They can sue me.” Grif waved it off. “Come on. You can nap on my chest while I play with your hair.”

He grabbed Simmons’ hand as soon as there was nobody in sight, trailing his fingers up his sleeve to the scarred skin there, and he spent the morning peppering soft kisses onto Simmons’ neck as Simmons wondered how sometimes, things could seem to go so right for somebody, while they went so wrong for someone else.


	19. more tangible than premonitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> having a lot of fun exploring alternate perspectives!! and it's nice to let more of the story unravel. next few chapters have quite a bit of information and reveals, so i'm excited for those <3 
> 
> quick tw; for drug use
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!

As the sun rose high in the afternoon sky, Tucker was pulled out of the back of a police vehicle. Fingers dug into his collarbone as he was pulled out, and he stepped out onto the tarmac, wishing he could lift a hand to shield his eyes from the bright, sudden light of outside. Once he was out of the car, he was moved forward several steps, his shoes crunching the gravel at his feet. When he was stopped to be given a brief pat down, he closed his eyes and focused on sucking in deep breaths of cool, fresh air instead.

The hands pulled away and he opened his eyes again, ignoring the sound of the guards talking behind him as he tilted his head back to peer up at the bright, cloudless sky. The golden rays of sunlight warmed his skin, and he wanted to close his eyes and soak it up, commit every second to memory even as they passed, but he knew he had to cherish it. So, for the last few moments, he kept his face tilted upwards, brown eyes directed at the seemingly endless blue above.

Then the door to the vehicle he’d just been removed from was slammed behind him, and the noise shattered the brief illusion of peace. Tucker sighed, and he once more became aware of the tight grip on him that was preventing him from moving.

“Take him in,” someone called, and the guard at his side moved to obey.

Tucker dropped his eyes downwards, the ephemeral happiness he’d felt vanishing completely. Anxiety began to twist in his gut as he peered at the familiar grey building he was directed towards. With one guard firmly at his back and the other only a few steps in front of him, he was led forwards, through the large door to the holding bay until the last warmth of the sunlight had faded from his skin.

Cold settled over him, and he shivered. The atmosphere within the detention centre felt so much heavier after the moments he’d spent outside, and combined with the apprehension that curdled in his stomach, he felt faintly nauseous. But without reprieve, the guard at their front led them onwards, through the bay at the back of the juvie and past the cells reserved for solitary. They continued like that past the holding cells, until he was into the central building, and Tucker swallowed down his disappointment as the familiar taste of refiltered air drove out the last remaining memories of freshness.

Simultaneously, the hum of the fluorescent lights caught his attention, but soon faded again, reasserting itself as part of the background noise that he would hear every day until he was out of here. Until he was free, and seeing blue skies and having sunkissed skin wasn’t a faraway dream. He gave in, and stopped fighting the familiar atmosphere of the juvie threatening to wash over him.

When they’d reached the largest block, where the mess hall sat, one of the guards left him, and he was led onward by the remaining guard. Every step he took left him filled with anticipation, with worry, because he’d been doing a good job of ignoring what he’d have to face until he couldn’t put off facing it anymore.

His heart racing, he scanned every face around him for a glimpse of blonde hair, for a familiar smattering of freckles, for anything _Wash_. Every boy was stared at intensely, but none of them were him, and Tucker was marched onwards, past them all, until he couldn’t see their faces anymore. The walkway down the line of rooms leading to his was empty, and it seemed oddly fitting.

“You’re due in the schooling area in fifteen,” the guard informed him, when he was directed wordlessly into his room.

Tucker nodded, and the guard left. He waited several seconds more, until he was out of sight completely, before he put down the items he’d been clutching, setting his spare change of clothes down on the corner of his bunk. When he hopped down, he eyed Wash’s rumpled bed.

“Wash,” he murmured, and wondered where he was.

No answers came to him, nothing but a spike of anxiety as Wash’s name faded in the air and left behind reminders of what had changed between them before he’d had to leave.

After a moment, Tucker abruptly turned, and walked out of his cell.  _Find Wash._ Find Wash, and then he’d deal with whatever happened. That was, after all, how he dealt with most things. Why bother planning everything out when the world could change around you in a second?

* * *

When he wheeled around the corner and walked into the block, Tucker realised his heart was racing. The realisation came almost distantly, as if it was an observation made by an outsider rather than something he could feel within himself, pushing blood around his veins at an accelerated rate in response to the stress he was failing to ignore.

But he could hear Grif’s voice from inside the bathroom, and if Grif was here, it could mean Wash was, too. That was more than enough to make him nervous, because he hadn’t given any thought about what he could say, what he would do, and now it was a very real possibility that he’d have to face him with no clue what to do. He realised he was sweating, and that he kept running his tongue over his chapped lips nervously, and so the first thing he expected Grif to say to him when he pushed open the stall door he was hiding behind was—

“You look like you need a hit,” Grif told him, when he recovered from having the door opened in his face.

Tucker blinked. No Wash. Only Grif, and Palomo.

“Fuck,” he said, and then Grif’s words registered. “What?”

Grif raised an eyebrow. “I said you look like shit."

Tucker looked around the small stall, and then turned to where Grif was sitting cross legged on the closed lid of the toilet. He shook his head. He knew what they were up to, and he didn’t have time for this. “Sorry, man, I gotta find Wash."

Grif cocked his head at him and Tucker paused, one hand on the door, ready to pull it open so he could leave. “You alright? You look… off.”

After a moment Tucker thought better of it, and he turned back and opened his mouth to respond before he stopped, his eyes flicking up to Palomo.

“Palomo, scram,” Grif ordered, reading him immediately.  “I need to talk to Tucker, alone.”

Palomo, seated on top of the toilet cistern and with his feet on the toilet roll dispenser, waved it off. “No biggie,” he said, cheerfully. Then, without missing a beat, “Please don’t tell anyone me and Bitters are a thing.”

It took Tucker a few seconds to make sense of that. “Uh, yeah. Sure dude, I won’t,” he said, when it clicked.

When Palomo still didn’t move, Grif made impatient gestures at him. “Seriously, beat it.”

“Aww,” came the response, but he lifted his feet and planted them on the ground, squeezing past Grif as he exited the stall.

Tucker backed out of the way so Palomo could get past him, and when he was out of range, he gestured towards Grif hesitantly.

“You wanted to talk?” 

“Yep,” Grif said, stretching, and Tucker’s eyes zoned in on his arm as the sleeve drew back.

What he saw didn’t strike him as any surprise, and Grif didn't say anything until he'd finished tugging the tourniquet from around his arm.

“I wanted to talk to you, it didn’t mean I actually thought I’d get the chance. Figured you’d be hunting down Wash by now, sorting out your shit.”

“I was,” Tucker said. “I mean, I am. I came here looking for him.”

“Where else did you look?” Grif asked, and tilted his head at him again. “Before this.”

Tucker hesitated. “Just the showers, then here.”

“Then I think you might have been looking for me,” Grif said, simply.

He seemed content to leave it at that for the moment, his attention diverted to gathering up the items Palomo had knocked over when he’d left, but Tucker frowned.

“What does that even mean?” he asked, somewhat tiredly. Then he shook his head. “Wait, let’s get out of here, first. If I want to talk to you, then I don’t want to do it while you’re sitting on a toilet.”

“Why not?” Grif asked, but he got to his feet.

He saw Tucker glance at the syringe on the cistern, but he said nothing, so wordlessly Grif capped it and slid it horizontally into his pants, trapping it in place with his waistband.

“How was the trial?” he asked, as he stuffed the small bag of white powder in his pants pocket.

Tucker shook his head. “Got nowhere,” he said, and Grif couldn’t determine the tone to his voice.

“They still won’t give up?”

Tucker shook his head again, but Grif didn’t miss the wince that it had covered. Wisely, he decided to drop it, and they were quiet until they were out in front of the sinks lining the wall. He looked at Tucker again, and frowned.

“You’ll bounce back soon,” he said, but it sounded more like he was searching for reassurance.

Tucker picked up on it. “Yeah. Just depressing as shit, you know?”

“I’m with you on that,” Grif said, and a wordless look of understanding passed between the two boys.

After a moment, Grif clapped his hands together, and Tucker blinked at him. “What?” 

“What do you mean, what? C’mon, spill. About what’s been going on with you, even though I fucking know it’s about Wash, and something to do with what’s up with him.”

Tucker peeked at him from between his fingers, where he’d been running his hands down his face. “What do you mean? Has he talked to you? What’d he say?”

Grif snorted. “More like he didn’t say anything,” he said, when Tucker made an impatient noise at him. “We lost him at breakfast. Actually, that’s on you to explain.”

“Me? Why? I don’t even know what happened!”

“I’ll tell you what didn’t happen. You didn’t tell him you had your trial date yesterday.”

Tucker‘s hand jerked up, then stopped in midair, and he turned to Grif. “I didn’t tell him—“ he began, then cut himself off.

“He had no idea what the hell happened to you, and he sure wasn’t happy,” Grif said, before he took pity on him. “You sure have a lot on your plate. Glad it isn’t me.”

“Thanks,” Tucker grumbled, but then the first half of Grif’s sentence registered and he sat upright. “Wait, what’d he say to you?” he demanded, and his eyes searched Grif’s blown pupils as if it would provide more answers. “What happened? Why didn’t any of you mention it to him? You didn’t see him the day before, did you — after the lockdown.”

The last part was less of a question and more of a statement, and Grif took it as such.

“Didn’t see a single glimpse of him until this morning,” he confirmed. “Let me tell you, whatever hideouts you’ve shown him, it must have been good, because we actually made an effort to look for him. Mostly because of how _you_ were acting before you left, which, by the way.... I still want an idea of what the hell you’re gunna do about him knowing about Felix’s.”

“Fuck,” Tucker said, instead of giving him a proper answer. “I should have known he wouldn’t want to face you. Come _on_ , that’s the most bullshit timing — now he’s gunna be pissed with me for that, too, and I still haven’t got a clue how I’m gunna explain to him about Felix’s.”

Grif _tssked_. “Might as well just tell him. He already knows for the most part, doesn’t he?”

Tucker was quiet for a moment before he spoke.

“That we go there, but not what we do,” he said, thoughtfully. “He doesn’t even know I do anything more than smoke. You should have seen the look on his face when I pulled out weed in front of him, he looked like it was gunna jump at him. And every conversation I’ve even sort of _mentioned_ drugs—"

He cut himself off, and reached up to tug at his dreads in frustration, pulling them down in front of his face before he swept them back again. Grif watched him rub at his temples tiredly.

“Dude, shit,” he said, sympathetically. He hesitated. “Was the trial really—”

“Went like shit,” Tucker muttered. “Trial went like shit, and now this is all going to shit.”

“They’re not—“

“No. At least, not yet. Look, dude, I don’t want to talk about this. I’ve got other problems. Namely, Wash.”

“Yeah, I’d call him a problem, too,” Grif said, and when Tucker raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged. “Just saying. He’s putting a bit of a strain on shit, is all.”

Tucker shrugged back, but it was forced. “Not really. Just certain things, and I mean, I guess I don’t blame him.”

“Whatever, dude. Just saying that it’s turning into drama. Okay, here’s what you can do: just tell him. It’s not like you’re fuckin' kicking puppies, it’s just selling drugs.”

“Drugs to us are very different than how he sees it,” Tucker muttered, defensively. “I’m telling you, he _hates_ them.”

“Well why didn’t you just tell him straight up?” Grif demanded. “Get it all out in the open?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tucker shot back, “Brilliant plan, genius. You mean not even two weeks ago, when I first met him? Or any time when we left him after school to head to Felix’s, or skipped out to get fucked up?”

“You coulda just explained to him—“

“Like, _hey, Wash, we’re gunna go shoot up in the bathrooms, which you would hate. Oh, by the way, there’s a fight club here, and also, Grif and I sell drugs to the kids in it—_ ”

Grif winced, and put up a hand to make him stop.

“ _Al_ _right!_  Okay, okay. We’ll figure something out. Look, it sounds bad, but that doesn’t mean he won’t forgive you. You two got close faster than anyone thought. I mean, look at you, you’re stressed as hell trying to figure out how to explain this to him, and he was fucked up when he realised you were gone this morning, since, y'know, you didn’t explain _that_ to him, either—”

“Grif, seriously —“

“I’m just saying! You’ve got some weird bromance going on. I don’t think it’s out of the question that he’ll, I don’t know, forgive you.”

“You don’t get it,” Tucker groaned. “I don’t think he’ll just forgive me. I don’t think the dude even knows _how_ to forgive people.”

Grif was quiet, but when Tucker looked to him for answers, he couldn’t do anything more than shrug helplessly. “Sorry, dude,” he said, when Tucker put his head in his hands. “Look, maybe you don’t have to tell him the whole truth yet. Just tell him you go there to use, or something — whatever you think would stop him fromstabbing you in your sleep.”

Tucker pulled away. “Fuck off,” he said, and he looked so genuinely pissed off that Grif was temporarily speechless. “That wasn’t funny.”

“I wasn’t joking!”

Tucker turned to stare at him. “Are you serious?” he demanded, eyes narrowed. “ _Wash._ Stab me in my fucking sleep.”

Grif looked uncomfortable. “Okay, maybe not that bad! But you saw what he did to Donut.”

“He’s not a psychopath, asshole! And that was different!”

“Jesus Christ, alright! I’m sorry. I thought that was actually an issue here.”

“No! What the _fuck?”_

“Well shit, dude, I don’t know! You’re clearly really fucking worried about it!”

“About fucking things up with Wash, not my safety! Jesus, dude, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“Kinda goes hand in hand with him,” Grif grumbled, but he conceded his mistake when Tucker made an exasperated noise. “Alright, I’m sorry. I was _wrong_ ,” he said, voice cracking. “Sorry for caring about my damn friends.”

“That’s _not_ what the issue is and you know it,” Tucker muttered. “Fuck, dude. I’m just— I don’t know what the fuck to do. This is useless. I should be talking to him now, or something.”

“He’s with Donut and Sarge at the moment,” Grif told him. “Who knows what the fuck they’re doing, but last time I checked, he was fine.”

“Right.” Tucker slid further down the wall, then he paused. “With Donut and Sarge? Uh, since when?”

“Since Donut followed him when he tried to walk off this morning, and I made Sarge go with them to keep an eye on things.”

“Good plan,” Tucker admitted. “Where’s Caboose and Simmons?”

“Caboose was with Andersmith, and Simmons is at school, I think. Or that’s what he was doing when I left him, and I doubt he’s skipping, so.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tucker waved it away, and the troubled, pensive look overcame him again. “ _Fuck,_ I feel like shit.”

He buried his head in his hands, and Grif made a noise of agreement. “It’s been, what, two days?”

“Not what I meant,” Tucker said, but it came out muffled. He lifted his head. “I meant more, oh, I feel like shit for what’s going on with Wash.”

“Oh.”

They drifted into silence, until eventually, their gazes met.

“It has been two days, though,” Tucker admitted.

Grif hesitated, then dug into his waistband and pulled out the syringe. 

* * *

Simmons frowned at the entrance to the bathroom block. He’d been looking for Grif, and by extension, Tucker, since school had finished, but with minimal results. He’d checked the other usual places — D cell, the favourite classroom they tended to gravitate towards when they knew it would be empty, both their rooms, and then the shower block, but to no avail.

The toilet block had been last on his list, but only because it was furthest away, located just beyond the shower block if approached from the direction he’d come from. Regardless, he wasn’t sure whether he was surprised or not when he began walking toward the small room and heard quiet echoes of familiar voices from within it.

 _Found you,_ he thought smugly, and lifted his hands to cup them around his mouth.

“You’re probably making things worse by avoiding it,” he called out, as he rounded the corner to the sight of Grif, sitting on one of the benches along the right hand side of the wall.

He frowned. “Oh. You’re not Tucker.”

“Glad you noticed,” Grif said dryly, but his voice had an undercurrent of nervousness to it that Simmons picked up on.

Simmons opened his mouth to ask why, when Grif shifted, reaching out an arm to snag something at his side and try and slide it out of sight. Simmons noticed immediately, and Grif knew he’d seen what it was when his eyes widened.

“Where’s Tucker?” he asked, but Grif didn’t get a chance to respond because a second later, the door to the nearest toilet stall flung open and Tucker stepped out.

“You called?”

Simmons stared at him, then turned his stare to Grif, who shifted guiltily.

“What?” Tucker asked, when nobody said anything. “What?”

Simmons’ silence was thundering. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he said, eventually, and Tucker gaped. “I didn’t think you could be this dumb, but here you are.”

“What?” Tucker demanded, but he made no move to refute it. “Okay, you’re probably right, but why?” Before Simmons could respond, Tucker slumped, and cast his eyes to the floor. “Oh,” he said. “Lemme guess, because I didn’t tell Wash about the trial. Thanks, like I don’t already feel bad enough.”

“Well, yes,” Simmons admitted. “But I was more talking about how dumb you’re being _right now_.”

Tucker gestured questioningly at him, and he shrugged helplessly when Simmons responded with a noise of disgust.

“Simmons,” Grif sighed, but looked surprised when Simmons jabbed a finger at him.

“This is probably your doing,” he accused, and Grif pulled back, the lazy annoyance dissipating to be replaced with surprise.

“What? What the fuck?”

“Yeah, what are you talking about, dude?” Tucker demanded.

“Really?” Simmons asked. “Really? Do you really have _no_ idea?”

When Tucker just stared at him, uncomprehending, Simmons threw his hands up.

“Honestly, do you ever put any thought into anything? You’re _high_ ,” he stressed, then lowered his voice and looked around. “If you think about the fact that you’ve gotta spend the night, at the _least_ , with Wash…. And you’re in deep water already because you haven’t explained to him that you use drugs, let alone that you _sell_ them.”

“Give the guy a break,” Grif cut in. “It’s morphine, not fucking meth. It’s just to chill him out for a bit. After all, you were the one that just said he was already in deep water, how much worse could it get?”

“It doesn’t work like that!” Simmons argued, his voice rising in pitch again. “That doesn’t mean he has the freedom to go and do it, just because he’s already in trouble for it anyway!”

“It’s just Wash,” Grif shrugged. “Who cares what he thinks?”

“Tucker does!” Simmons cried. He turned to the boy in question. “You really thought this was a good idea?”

Under his stare, Tucker wilted. He turned as they heard footsteps, and they waited, tension skyrocketing, but a boy came in, paid them no heed, and went into one of the stalls.

“No,” he admitted, when they turned back to him. He sounded miserable even to his own ears.

Simmons shook his head. “You know I don’t approve of this anyway, and even without all the stuff with Wash, you only just got back from your trial. That’s never a good time to be doing stupid shit.”

Tucker lifted a shoulder, disregarding the trial comment. “But I don’t know what to say to him, and I’ve got a few hours to completely sober up before I have to face him. Besides, might do him some good, spending time with Donut and Sarge.”

“Right,” Grif scoffed. “Like time with either of them would do anyone any good.”

“Grif,” Simmons chastised. “Seriously, I’m tired of you two doing such stupid shit, and you really shouldn’t be encouraging him! You _know_ it’s probably just going to make things worse.”

“I didn’t encourage him,” Grif denied. “And at this point you _know_ he doesn’t depend on me for it, so I really don’t appreciate you making it out like it’s my fault.”

“But you gave it to him now, didn’t you?”

At Grif’s silence, Simmons shook his head. There was another pause while the boy from earlier left, and when he was gone they turned back to one another.

“I’m right here, just f-y-i,” Tucker muttered. “Since you seem fine talking about me like I’m not.”

Simmons shook his head and continued to ignore him. “Grif,” he said, warningly.

“Fine! Alright, I’m sorry,” Grif sighed, and rolled his head so he was looking at Tucker.

Tucker stared. “Sorry for what?” he asked.

“For getting you high, according to Simmons on his fucking high horse over here, in case it means you fuck something up with your non-psychotic loverboy Wash.”

“ _Grif_ —“

“Well what the fuck do you want from me, Simmons? I don’t give a shit about their drama, it’s not my problem.”

“Wow, thanks,” Tucker said. “Fucking asshole.”

Grif threw his hands up. “Whatever. You two can bitch about it yourselves, I’m outta here.”

He got to his feet, ignoring Simmons’ call of his name.

“Go fuck yourself,” Tucker called after him, and Grif flipped him off as he made his way down the hall. He turned to Simmons. “I don’t know how you put up with him, honestly.”

Simmons pulled his gaze away. “Huh? Oh, yeah. It sucks sometimes, but…”

“That was rhetorical,” Tucker muttered, and then began, “Simmons, you’re good at solving problems.”

Simmons laughed, but Tucker didn’t laugh with him. “Oh, you’re being serious?”

“ _Yes_. Look, what would you do, if you were me? Grif’s advice fucking sucked, and you were right, I probably did just make things worse."

“I don’t know, why would you ask me? I have no experience with this stuff! I was always terrible at keeping secrets!”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. But you’ve at least gotta have some idea on what to do — how do I get out of this without fucking things up worse?”

“Step one, stop listening to Grif,” Simmons suggested, without missing a beat. “Uh, apart from that, I don’t know. Apologise? Stop avoiding him, maybe?”

“You can’t talk, you run away from everything!”

“Yeah, but that works out for me.”

“ _How?”_

“I don’t know, it just does! I don’t question it.”

“That’s so dumb,” Tucker muttered. “And I’m not avoiding him. Or, I wasn’t. I guess I am now.”

“Why, because you don’t want him to see you while you’re high?”

“No shit, genius. He’d either rip my head off or not talk to me for the rest of my life, and I’m not keen to find out which.”

Simmons hesitated. “You don’t think you’re just worrying too much about it? Because I mean, I do that _all_ the time, so—“

“ _No,_ man, trust me. He’s so very uncool with it.”

There was a few moments of quiet as another boy entered, ignoring them.

“So what are you going to do long term?” Simmons asked, when the boy was gone, and Tucker grunted at him questioningly. “You know, about Wash. You obviously clash in a lot of ways, and sooner or later he’s going to find out. About this, at least.”

“I’ll tell him,” Tucker said, slowly. “Just… not yet.”

Simmons squinted at him. “That’s a dumb idea. No offense.”

“What? Why? It avoids drama now, and—“

“And causes more later,” Simmons cut in, and the look he gave Tucker was genuinely frustrated. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

“Uh, the part that involves me facing Wash tonight and telling the dude shit that I don’t want to talk about?”

“Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

“No, not really! C’mon, it’s not like we’re dating!” Simmons lifted an eyebrow, but before he had the chance to question his choice of words, Tucker barreled onwards. “So I’ve been hiding some stuff from him, so fucking what?”

“So what? So what? This is so what! You backed yourself into this corner, and _you’re_ the one that’s worried about the fact that now you’ve gotta face it. _So what,”_  he repeated, scoffing. “Honestly—“

“ _Alright,_ I get it.”

Simmons backed down and actually seemed to take sympathy on him. “Well, good. So I guess the question is, what can you do to fix this?”

Tucker groaned, but he stopped for a moment and actually thought about it. Simmons waited, gaze wandering idly around the tiled room until Tucker lifted his head thoughtfully.

“So, I tell him. Just say, what — I do drugs. And sell them. And at a place where kids beat the shit out of each other for the hell of it, but for some reason I hope he’ll just… not be mad at me for it.”

There were a few moments of quiet.

“At least you’re getting it out of the way,” Simmons said, sympathetically. “It’d be worse the longer you waited.”

He shifted on the spot, and Tucker wanted to gesture for him to sit down, but he knew his anxiety would keep him upright and moving around. He rubbed at his temples.

“Great,” he muttered. “I mean, how bad could it be? I’ll just destroy his trust, _like he had much to start with_ , and then have to suffer with that every fucking day, in close quarters with him. Yeah, so glad I’m getting that out of the way early on.”

Simmons hesitated. “You could always, you know...”

Tucker lifted his head to eye him, trying to read him. “Dude, spill. Any idea is a good idea right now.”

Simmons spoke tentatively. “You could tell him you’re going to stop.”

Tucker scoffed. “Wow, you think lying to him even more is gunna help? And I thought it couldn’t get any worse than Grif’s advice.”

“No,” Simmons frowned. “I mean tell him you’ll stop, and then actually stop.”

Tucker laughed, but it died immediately, and he looked up at him searchingly. “What planet do you live on, dude? I’m not gunna stop just because Wash would want me to.”

Simmons waited for a moment, like he expected Tucker to stop and backtrack, but he was only met with an impatient look. He repressed a sigh. “I’m no expert, but I think it would be the best thing you can do. Just stop going to Felix’s with Grif. Besides, it’s not like you need to go there, anyway. Grif handles it by himself, we both know that.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of quiet before Tucker shook his head. “I like to know someone has his back. We might not fight in there, but that doesn't mean shit still doesn’t go down.”

“Exactly why you should stop!” Simmons pushed. “Grif could sell enough outside of Felix’s place to cover what he needs, it’d just take more effort on his part, so he doesn’t want to. But if he did, that would mean you wouldn’t have to be there, which would be safer _and_ ease things up with Wash—“

“I’d still be selling! And using, and — it doesn’t change much,” Tucker argued, but Simmons had a point and he knew it.

“You don’t even need to sell,” Simmons countered, but his voice was somewhat hesitant. “I mean, as far as I know — but that’s not the point. It’s a step, at least, and it’s an olive branch to offer him if you think he’ll really react badly.”

“He will,” Tucker said again.

“Then why not actually _do something_ to help? Admit to him everything. Tell him you’re… you know, with morphine… and that you go with Grif to sell it at Felix’s sometimes,” he said, and hurried on when Tucker opened his mouth to argue. “Just tell him, then tell him exactly how you feel, and that if it means something to him, which it does, then you’ll make an effort to stop.”

That made Tucker pause, whatever he’d been about to say dying on his lips. Simmons watched as Tucker glanced down, a frown on his face that he probably wasn’t aware of as he rubbed at the back of his neck.

“Tell him how I feel,” he repeated, and looked back up at him.

“Yeah!” Simmons said. “That you actually feel bad, and you want to make an effort so he’ll forgive you! You know?”

“Yeah, but that kinda sounds like bullshit to me, dude.”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Simmons’ words rang in the following silence. Tucker pondered over them, and Simmons let the silence continue on until Tucker opened his mouth to break it. At that moment, they heard footsteps, and they glanced halfheartedly up as several boys entered the bathroom. They were given a lingering look, but that was as far as it went before they were ignored again. Regardless, it was enough to make Simmons nervous.

“We can have this discussion somewhere else, maybe?” 

Tucker looked at him, then nodded. “Somewhere I can smoke,” he decided, and eyed the smoke detector above the toilet stalls warily.

“I really wish you wouldn’t,” Simmons began.

“Save it,” Tucker interrupted, immediately, and Simmons grumbled but let it be.

As Tucker got to his feet, a slight hesitation the only thing giving away his unsteadiness, Simmons watched him and sighed.

“Come on. You can stay with me in my cell until you feel more clear headed.”

Tucker paused. “Thanks, dude,” he said, after a moment.

“It’s — don’t worry about it, I mean, it’s no big deal.”

“You’re a pretty good guy, Simmons,” Tucker said, as he gripped onto the frame of the entrance door. “I think you’ll do pretty fucking well for yourself when you get out of here.”

Simmons went red. “Uh, thank you. I mean, thank you, really. That’s, uh, really nice of you. Y'know, it means a lot—“

“Don’t give yourself an aneurism,” Tucker snorted. “You need to learn to take compliments.”

“It’s not my fault! I don’t know what to say!”

“I realised,” Tucker said dryly, and they exited the block into an open room.

A guard stood by the door, uninterested, and Tucker passed her by without hesitation. Simmons shrunk away infinitesimally, but quickly rejoined Tucker by his side, and they began walking towards the room Simmons occupied in a thoughtful, comfortable silence. They made it back into the main area quickly, each still lost in their own thoughts, until Donut’s voice rang out from behind them.

“Tucker! Simmons!” he called.

The two boys froze, then glanced at each other.

“Didn’t you say he was with Sarge and… ” Tucker started, and trailed off when a familiar stream of Sarge’s curses reached his ears.

Simmons didn’t respond, instead met him with the same caught out expression fixed on Tucker’s face. The boys behind them were approaching quickly, Sarge’s grumbles becoming more audible as they closed the distance between them. Tucker swallowed, and together, they turned, moving in unison to face Donut as he waved them down.

Donut cheered, glad to have gotten their attention, and Sarge finished his rant as they came face to face. Distantly, Tucker heard Simmons say something, heard the nervous catch to his voice as he greeted them, but his heart was caught in his throat and the sound of his blood racing through his veins drowned out the words.

Because standing between them, staring straight at him, was Wash.


	20. the aftermath is primary, if it's got to do with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i'm excited! i've got a commissioned art piece upcoming in the next while -- i wanted to post it in tandem with this chapter, but unfortunately i have to leave in the next few days for a week long trip and i didn't want the chapter to be late. 
> 
> there's a time skip upcoming, for the next story arc to settle in, and i can actually see the end of the fic in sight -- albeit still a ways away. i'm trying to make the chapters longer, but i've always had a feeling about when chapters should end, rather than trying to meet a word limit, so it's been a bit difficult for me, but if i don't start condensing more into less chapters i'm going to have to go back and start joining chapters together, and im not sure how keen i am on that.
> 
> moving on, enjoy the chapter! find me at ragamuffiin on tumblr <3

Tucker watched the three of them come to a stop only a few steps away from where he and Simmons stood. The distance between them seemed so much more obvious to him, and he didn’t stop to think why, but a small part of his brain registered the fact that the last time he’d been so aware of the space between he and Wash had been when Wash had run away from him.

 _The last time he’d seen him at all,_  his mind whispered, and he hated again how everything had changed between them.

Donut’s chattering started up in the background, an attempt to break the sudden and overwhelming awkwardness, but the two intended recipients paid it no heed. Tucker’s brain was racing, his mind turning over and over as he searched for something to say to the boy in front of him. Nothing he could think of sounded right, and Wash was still staring at him, steely eyes cautiously free of expectance, so Tucker settled for the first thing he could think of.

“Hey, Wash,” he said, softly.

For a few moments, he didn’t think Wash was going to respond, but then he opened his mouth and—

“Tucker,” he said, just as quietly, and even the sound of his voice left something churning in Tucker’s gut.

He realised everyone had fallen silent, watching them. There was nothing he could think of to say; his gaze fixated on Wash, on drinking in his features, on the way he stared back, openly now, matching Tucker move for move and without regard for any of the other boys around them.

Then Simmons spoke up.

“Maybe we should...”

“I was about to say the same thing, Simmons,” Sarge agreed. “Let’s skedaddle.”

“But it’s just getting good!” Donut protested, but he didn’t get a chance to argue any further before Simmons was leading him away.

Wash glanced back after them, looking as if he was ready to move in their wake, but glanced back at Tucker uncertainly. He watched as Wash flicked one last glance after them, then stilled himself, and turned back to meet Tucker’s gaze again. Move for move. Still waiting on Tucker, unwilling to offer anything more than exactly what he was given. Unintentionally showing exactly what Tucker already knew — something had been damaged between them, and it bled into everything, because now Wash was wary of giving anything to Tucker.

The guilt manifested itself in his throat, in his mind, blocking him from thinking of anything to say and from bridging the gap between them. The silence between them drew out until it was nearly unbearable, and he ached for something, anything, agonisingly aware that time was slipping away from him.

Then Wash shook his head and shifted backwards. Turned to leave, and the look in his eyes before he lowered his gaze was so undeniably disappointment that Tucker felt like he’d been hit in the stomach.

“Wait,” he managed, his throat dry.

This time, when Wash looked at him, eyebrows furrowing over his eyes as he examined him, his gaze shifted into something softer. Something Tucker swore looked like understanding, even though it couldn’t be, because Wash didn’t owe him that. Except it was, because Wash cleared his throat and broke the silence for him.

“I was told you’d want to talk to me,” he said, and they both knew what he was doing — that he was offering Tucker the smallest of olive branches, even though it went against every other expectation Tucker had. The second he realised, he found his voice again.

“I do,” he said, immediately. “I mean, I do. I actually... I actually have a lot I want to say.”

He watched as Wash looked back at him, his expression shifting back into unreadable, and they swallowed at the same time. A few moments passed where Wash looked hesitant, but before Tucker could worry, he met his eyes and shifted a little closer back towards him.

“Well, then... I’m listening.”

Something about his words, or maybe the way he said them, made Tucker pause. He stopped, his response catching in his throat long enough for him to swallow it back down again, and he looked at Wash — really looked at him, standing in the middle of the hallway, his freckled arms crossed warily over his chest, defensive and hesitant and unsure but still offering Tucker a chance.

Still there. Still listening.

The weight of what he’d have to tell him vanished, replaced by something else. Between them, something shifted, and suddenly everything didn’t seem so daunting, and Wash wasn’t a million miles away. The relief that spread through him fed the warmth that had ignited in his stomach, and it took several seconds to manifest into an abrupt, intense realisation.

“Tucker?” Wash prompted, a careful degree of concern in his tone, and Tucker realised he’d been staring.

He blinked, once, twice, but didn’t take his eyes from Wash.

“You’re still listening,” he said, in answer to his question.

Wash hesitated, and didn’t respond, but Tucker could see him thinking that over. And, after a moment, he seemed to understand, because he looked at him again with a different light in his eyes as Tucker began to speak.

* * *

The hopeful look in Wash’s eyes hadn’t faded when Tucker had suggested they go to the room they shared first, for which he was grateful. Despite his revelation earlier, his awareness of how rocky the ground between them was still plagued him, along with the knowledge of just what he had to tell Wash. He was unsure, but he wasn’t buying time. He’d resigned himself to it, accepted it, as much as he could — he just needed to do it right, otherwise he had no chance of doing it at all.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I had my trial date today,” he said, as they walked down the walkway to their room. The silence between them wasn’t awkward, but rather pensive, both boys a mixture of lost in their own thoughts and cautiously stealing glances at the other.

Wash didn’t answer, so Tucker cleared his throat and continued, “I honestly was going to, but I didn’t get a chance, because you were in solitary during the time I would have been able to catch you.”

He waited while Wash mulled that over for a moment. He assumed that he was still adjusting to having Tucker at his side again, much like he was readjusting to Wash. Although they hadn’t been separated long, what had come between them during that had put a strange twist on their interactions. Tucker knew he seemed more serious, but he didn’t know how Wash saw him, didn’t know that his dark eyes implored Wash to understand even though he hadn’t begun explaining yet.

And through that, it was there, the promise of finding steady ground once more.

“Why didn’t you tell me before that?” Wash asked, a question Tucker had known was coming.

He gave him the truth. “I don’t like talking about it. And I thought if I could leave it as late as possible, and give you less information, you’d get the hint and not ask too much about it.”

Wash swallowed, his expression giving away his surprise at Tucker’s honesty, and a moment later he nodded in response. “That probably would have worked,” he admitted. “I don’t want... I understand some conversations are hard to have.”

“Yeah, or I’m just a little bitch about things,” Tucker cut in, determined to be as blunt and straightforward as possible. “And you’re too damn understanding. It’s easy to avoid things when you’re perceptive as shit and drop it like straight up. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I definitely like it like that, but do you know what I mean?”

Wash didn’t really answer, just gave a thoughtful hum, so Tucker continued on.

“Like, you get assholes like Grif, who, if he thinks you’re hiding something and he’s interested, he’ll push it until you give in, usually. But you don’t, because you’re not an asshole. You’re like... the opposite of Grif. Like I said, except for the Junior thing, you’ve never really pushed.”

“You just don’t seem interested in telling me certain things,” Wash replied, without thinking about his response. He frowned at himself, but before he could rephrase, Tucker hurried to answer.

“No, dude — it’s not that. I’m not 'not interested', I just— like I said, I don’t like talking about some stuff. That applies to everyone, not just you.”

Wash nodded as they arrived at the door to their room. Tucker was first inside, and he took several steps forward before stopping and abruptly wheeling on Wash.

“Can I be honest with you?” He didn’t wait for Wash’s response before he went on. “Sometimes, there’s some things that I would tell you easier than I think I would someone else.”

Wash hesitated, thrown by Tucker’s sudden change, but he thought over the words quickly. “You still don’t tell me,” he said, cautiously, unsure if he was on the right track.

“Doesn’t matter,” Tucker responded, immediately and with no trace of doubt. “It still counts. And, for the record, the Junior thing — I was a bit, y’know, about telling you at first, but I mean, I don’t think there’s anyone else that I would have told that quickly.”

Wash looked like he had several responses to that, but he held them all back. Tucker frowned, unaware how close Wash was looking at him again, eyes swapping between his pupils, and he realised what he was doing. He pulled back and averted his eyes just as he saw Wash begin to frown.

“So I didn’t get to tell you about me going to my trial date because you got caught in the lockdown,” he quickly began, and Wash waited, several seconds passing while he watched to see if Tucker would look at him again before he eventually nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker heard him say, and when he glanced at him, he looked as surprised as Tucker felt. He paused for a moment, as if trying to think of his reasoning, and after a moment it seemed to come to him. “I know you don’t like lockdowns, and I, well, caused one.”

Despite himself, Tucker felt a small laugh bubble up. At the sound, Wash untensed slightly. He was the first to move towards his bunk, and Tucker sat himself on the desk, legs swinging as he faced him.

“Don’t sweat it, Wash. I was more worried about you. How’d you go with that, anyway? The lockdown. I— I never got a chance to find out.”

Wash hesitated, then shook his head. “I’d rather talk about something else,” he said, and Tucker frowned.

“Not good, huh?” he asked, but all he got was another shake of the head, so he repressed a sigh and gave him a way out. “Talk for another time?”

This time, Wash nodded, and steered the conversation back to the original topic. “You were telling me about—”

“Felix’s, right,” Tucker interrupted, but he didn’t go into further detail.

Washington waited, the way he chewed at his lip giving away his own degree of hesitation. Whether he was unwilling to interrupt whatever Tucker looked like he wanted to say, or he changed his mind about offering reassurance, Tucker didn’t know, but in the end he said nothing. There was no way around it. Tucker swallowed, but seconds before he blurted it, he found himself saying something else.

“Actually, if you want, I could tell you about my trial.”

Wash looked as surprised as he’d expected, his eyes widening, and then narrowing moments later with something Tucker couldn’t refute was suspicion. Uncomfortably, Tucker shifted, and he watched as Wash lifted his gaze to run his eyes over him. He wondered what he was seeing, what information he was reading while Tucker felt like he was just sitting there. After a moment, Wash nodded, and he seemed to be more understanding.

As Wash resettled himself on the bed, angling himself completely towards Tucker, Tucker realised he had no idea where to start. But, just like the sensation that had overcome him before, the urge to steer the conversation away — to drop the topic completely — was gone. A small part of himself wanted to tell Wash, to see how he reacted, what he would do, what he’d say — if anything would change between them anymore than it already felt like it had. And he wanted Wash to know. For no other reason than he wanted him to know, wanted to give him that part of himself, because he trusted him, and that wasn’t something Tucker took lightly.

“Do you have any idea why I’m here?” he started, and immediately, Wash’s eyes widened. After a moment, he shook his head, but Tucker caught the hesitation and pushed on. “No idea at all?”

Another infinitesimal hesitation, and Wash shook his head again. Tucker considered that while he chewed on his lip.

“So you’d have no idea what my trial is about,” he presumed.

“I—” Wash began, then stopped. “I can’t imagine. From what I know about you, and from what I know about anyone else here... I can’t think, and I don’t... I don’t want to assume.”

He said the last part quietly, and he withdrew momentarily, and Tucker wondered what was going on inside his head. He didn’t get a chance to ask, because a moment later, Wash shook himself and looked back up at him.

“You’re very close to Donut,” he said.

Tucker’s first response was to agree, to look at him strangely and ask “ _What’s your point?”_ , but the question answered itself in the way that Wash looked at him, afraid of crossing an unspoken line. Tucker’s jaw dropped, and for several seconds, he couldn’t respond, his voice refusing to lend itself to the shapes his mouth was noiselessly creating. Wash’s eyes widened in return, and something charged passed between them in the split second before Tucker finally found his voice again.

“No—" he managed, and for a long moment, that’s all he could manage, long enough for Wash’s expression to start to shift, for his mouth to start forming what Tucker knew would be his name, but— “ _No_ , no, I promise.” Wash stared at him, waiting for elaboration, and Tucker shook himself. “I mean, I am close with Donut, but — it’s not that. It wasn’t… that.”

For several long moments, Wash continued to stare at him, reading him, looking so intensely focused that Tucker couldn’t do anything but stare back at him openly. Then, Wash pulled back, and so much sheer, undeniable relief washed over his features that Tucker was stunned, felt it down to his core, and he was barely able to swallow down the emotion that rose up within him.

“Wash—” he started, but Wash cut him off immediately.

He must have been aware of how he looked, because he refused to meet Tucker’s eye, instead holding up a hand as he kept his gaze averted to the side. “I’m just... very relieved to hear that,” he said, but his voice cracked with emotion and gave him away.

Tucker’s lips parted, but he said nothing, and he couldn’t deny that it twisted something inside of him — not painfully, but with appreciation, with gratitude, with a mixture of emotions at how much Wash had just shown he’d cared without even meaning to.

“I didn’t know — I didn’t know it was something you’d even thought about."

Wash didn’t answer for a few moments, until he cleared his throat, eyes darting up to Tucker’s before flashing away again. “Just, after how protective you were of Donut… and so many things, I didn’t know what to think—”

Tucker tensed, suddenly, and Wash caught it immediately. He cut himself off, and a moment later he found his voice again, but not before Tucker did.

“I’m saying what happened to Donut didn’t happen to me,” he said, and he wondered if Wash could tell how carefully he was choosing his words.

He should have known he could. Wash caught on, and narrowed his eyes.

“Are you—”

“Look. My trial, and shit that’s happened to me — the trial’s just one thing, okay?”

Wash pulled back. “Okay,” he said, and Tucker could see him trying to figure out what that meant. “But—“

“I might not have many more trial dates."

He knew the nervous catch to his voice was obvious, but he also knew that Wash might not know what to make of it. He was right, because the look Wash gave him was confused, the crease in between his eyebrows giving him away as he tried to process it. Tucker didn’t offer anything else, because he had no idea where he was going with it, and talking about it made his entire mouth feel dry but something in him wanted to get it out.

“What do you think the verdict will be?” Wash asked, a moment later.

The question came as a bit of a surprise, but when Tucker thought about it, he realised it was actually a pretty smart question, designed to elicit a lot of information but not all at once.

He swallowed, and realised he was postponing it. His nerves left him fluttery and anxious, but he steeled himself and offered the truth. “I think I’ll be going home."

Wash stared at him, subconsciously shifting closer until he was almost at the edge of the bed. He didn’t give any other reaction, and Tucker knew he was probably schooling his features, waiting until he knew what this meant before he would respond.

He took a deep breath. “I really don’t want to go home.”

The reaction was instantaneous. Wash’s features clouded over, emotions flitting across his face, shifting his features almost imperceptibly as he sorted through them. Tucker kept his gaze fixated on Wash’s eyes, even as Wash broke away to pull back, suddenly aware that he’d been leaning forward. Seconds later, he was looking back at Tucker again, and his expression was carefully blank. He hesitated, the obvious question making it to his lips before he paused, but even as he did Tucker could see him reconsider.

He knew what he would ask, so he broke in before Wash could speak.

“I ran away with Junior,” he said, like it wasn’t another bombshell to drop, like it wouldn’t create more questions than it answered.

But he needed to go about this his way, not just answering why, because he was going to tell him — he was, but on his own terms. He wasn’t even sure he could find an answer to that question, if it was even possible to answer with such limitations. Yet the next question was exactly the same as the one that had gone unspoken.

“You— why?”

And this time, it was Tucker that looked away. He breathed in, then out, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Wash’s hand flex towards him before it stilled, and returned to where it had been resting on his thigh.

“They claimed I was unfit as a parent,” he said, after he tore his gaze away, “So they started a custody battle for Junior. And... they won. They almost had him put into foster care, made all of us lose him, but in the end, they won.”

Wash looked like he had a million questions to ask, but had no idea where to start. Tucker understood, so after a moment, he got up off the desk and moved to the bed next to where Wash was sitting. A stream of kids walking past indicated that exercise hour had finished and dinner was beginning, but if Wash realised that, he made no move to get up, so Tucker sat next to him. He moved back until he was leaning against the wall, and Wash turned so his back was against the side wall and he was facing him.

“They being—?”

“My parents. His grandparents, technically, but believe me, the word parent shouldn’t even be in there at all where they’re concerned.”

Wash waited, but Tucker didn’t say anything else.

“Why did they do it?” he asked.

Tucker scoffed bitterly. “That’s a brilliant fucking question." He was aware he hadn’t answered the question, but it was another loaded one, and he didn’t think he could without having to unravel the whole picture.

Except what the fuck else was he doing, sitting here talking to him?

“Look, it’s — it’s a long story, and I’m not just saying that. I don’t really know, um, where to start.”

He gave an awkward laugh, but Wash didn’t join him, his expression melting into gentle concern that made Tucker’s laugh die off.

“They had no good reason to take him from me,” he said, somewhat suddenly. “Nothing they could offer that I couldn’t give him a million times over. I mean, they had money, and _jobs,_ but that’s not what really counts, y’know?”

Wash didn’t know what to say to that.

“Anyway. His — his mother killed herself when he was a few weeks old, and I got him, and even though I sorta didn’t want him at first, and I had no idea what the hell to do, I still tried. And like, fuck, you can’t take care of a tiny little helpless baby every day for months without starting to love it just a little.”

“I… I’d imagine not.”

Although he’d sounded stilted, Tucker didn’t comment on it. He was too lost in his own thoughts, in recounting his story, unaware of the storm of emotions clouding his eyes that Wash watched intently as he withdrew into himself. After a moment, Wash’s voice prompted him from his thoughts.

“Why did you run away with him?”

Tucker turned his head towards him but didn’t look him in the eye. “Because as soon as they realised I loved him, they started threatening to take him away. Every fucking day, dude, that’s what they’d hold over me. That they could take him. And I fucking — I believed it. I thought they could do it if they wanted, that they could take him from me like that.”

“But…” He let himself trail off, the question going unspoken.

“Yeah, obviously they did,” he sighed. “I’m telling this all wrong, dude. They didn’t — they didn’t get him until after I fucked up.”

“When you ran away?” Wash tried, but Tucker shook his head.

“Before that. I actually... I fucked up, big time. That doesn’t mean they should have had him taken from me — it was one fucking mistake, but that’s all they needed, and between that and the other shit — they had stable jobs, a house, more money — they took Junior, took legal and physical custody of him, and kicked me out.”

Wash waited, and Tucker appreciated it, but there was no beating around the bush.

“And then I fucked up again."

“You ran away with him,” Wash murmured, and even though he knew it was coming, Tucker made an agitated noise.

“Yeah, I broke in, and I took him, and I tried to run away with him. I just thought — I thought if I could get us both out of there, we could start again, without any of the bullshit. Without them ruining his life like they did mine.”

Wash was frowning, but he didn’t say anything, and Tucker’s frustration built up.

“You don’t get it, do you? Despite everything, according to the law, according to their fancy fucking lawyer and all their bullshit, he wasn’t mine to take, but I took him anyway. I broke into — into _their_ house, and I stole him from the fucking crib, and I tried to run away with him.”

“Tucker,” Wash said, but that was as far as he got before Tucker pulled away, shifting away from him and running his hands through his dreads in frustration, visibly upset.

“I fucked up,” Tucker said, and he was suddenly looking straight at Wash again. “Majorly, a million times over I fucked up, but they had no fucking right to take him from me. No way. As if I would ever hurt him like they did to me, like I’d ever let him go hungry, or let him cry so hard he choked, or — or not fucking love him, because they don’t!”

“Tucker—”

Tucker got to his feet, pacing out into the middle of the cell before spinning around.

“They don’t love him, Wash, and they’re the ones that got him? They neglect me all my fucking life, kick the shit out of me—” he cut off, but only for a second, before he picked right back up, “—and they get him? Because they have a good job and a good lawyer and they can lie through their teeth? In what fucking world is that fair?”

He wasn’t waiting for an answer, which was good, because by the way Wash was staring at him, he didn’t have one.

“He’s mine,” Tucker said again. “And I love him, and I’ve missed so much of his life already, and now the only chance I really have with him is if they win the trial and... and I go back home.”

He ran out of steam, his energy sapped away with every word. Wearily, he sat back down on the edge of the bed. There was a rustle, and a moment later Wash’s leg appeared in his peripheral vision as he slid over to sit next to him. He didn’t touch him, and Tucker wasn’t sure whether it was his imagination or if the ache inside him worsened at that. He didn’t know if it mattered. He felt a yawning, painful ache within him, and he was surprised to feel tears prickling at the corner of his eyes.

“It’s just fucking stupid,” he said, and wiped angrily at his eyes before the tears could properly form.

He realised the story wasn’t really finished, that he’d probably left a lot unanswered. A large part of him wanted to just let it go, so he could calm down and breathe without feeling like something was constricting his chest, but he hadn’t even explained the one thing he’d promised Wash he would explain. But he was somehow both tired and still worked up, so he took a deep breath and blew it out, feeling some of his tension go with it.

“It’s okay,” Wash said, mindlessly, and although neither of them were ones for banal platitudes, it went a small way to providing comfort for Tucker. His tone was gentle, oddly soothing, and for a few moments he watched Wash, letting the warmth inside him wear away at the twisted knot in his stomach before he settled back against the wall once more. This time, Wash sat beside him, and Tucker found he appreciated the closeness.

“I don’t know where I was going with this,” he admitted, and glanced at Wash.

Wash met his gaze, but Tucker diverted his moments later, instead blatantly tracing Wash's features with his eyes as he waited for a response. He was looking over the scar in his eyebrow when it quirked, and he knew Wash was watching him, but he didn’t say anything, so neither did Tucker.

"So you can see why I don't want to go home to them. I'll get to be closer to Junior, but that's the one good thing. The way that they're playing it is that if I get to go home and see him again, I'll actually be further away from having him than ever."

"Tucker?"

“They’re arguing that when I took Junior and ran with him, I was mentally unstable. Which means step one, I go straight back to them. Close to Junior, good, yeah. But depending on what they try and say I have, since I was convicted, there’s a bunch of complications. The worst fucking thing is, it pretty much destroys my chances of ever getting Junior back. Can't take care of him at all, according to them."

Wash nodded as it came together. Tucker was relieved he didn’t have to try and explain it any further. It felt like it physically pained him to say, an ache forming in his chest at the thought.

“They’re not good people, Wash,” he said, and he sounded tired even to his own ears.

After his rant, after bringing all the emotions he tried to ignore to the surface, after so much talking, after coming down off the high, he couldn’t find it in himself to be wary about being so vulnerable.

“You don’t need to say anything,” he sighed, after a few moments, because he could sense Wash searching for words.

Wash ignored him, because a second later, he slid closer to him, eyes focused on Tucker’s. “You deserve better,” he said simply, and of all the things he could have said, Tucker wondered why that small sentence meant so much.

It hit him again, and he didn’t know what he’d been so afraid of. Why he’d held off telling Wash anything about him for so long — because it seemed like every time he did, Wash surprised him, with levels of understanding and empathy and just the right thing to say. He didn’t know if he felt lighter — Simmons talked about it sometimes, about how he felt better when he could finally admit to something, and Donut had said essentially the same — but he felt different. Changed, just a little, in a way that told him it was the right thing to do.

Maybe it was because it was one less thing he was keeping from Wash. Maybe because he’d just needed to talk about it, with someone who wasn’t Grif, someone who’d hear the story and actually listen to it. And, after all, wasn’t that what Wash had said?

He was listening.

But as Tucker thought about what he had to tell him, he wondered how much longer that would last. He got to his feet. “I know I haven’t answered anything much yet,” he started. “Not about what I said I would.” Wash nodded, slowly, and didn’t take his eyes off him. “It’s hard,” he admitted, shifting under Wash’s gaze. “There’s so much to say and I have zero fucking clue how to go about it. Like, I didn’t even really finish that story, and… well, with Felix’s, it’s a whole nother thing.”

“I’m not sure I can help you with it,” Wash said, after a moment. “I don’t know what it is you want to say.”

“Should say,” Tucker corrected. “If I want to fix shit with you.”

“Right.”

“Because believe me, if I could think of a better choice than explaining it to you, that’s what I’d probably go with.”

“Tucker,” Wash said, and he sounded exasperated, but only faintly. Like he had more pressing things to think about, drawing his attention away from the conversation they were having even now.

Tucker knew that even if he wanted, he wouldn’t get out of explaining everything, but he found himself hinting at it nonetheless. “What, you didn’t pick up on my whole honesty thing? I’m going in no holds barred, dude, and if you already don’t like what I’m saying—“

“I’d rather have an explanation,” Wash cut in, sensing immediately where he was going with it. 

“I’m trying,” Tucker responded, but he sounded duller than he had before, even to his own ears. “Just hard. If I’m honest, which I am, I don’t really want to tell you.”

“Well then why—“

"I just—" Tucker cut himself off, ran his hands through his hair. “I just don’t want to fuck this up anymore. And I know I probably will when I tell you.”

Wash shifted, understandably wary. “And this is in relation to why you go to Felix’s,” he said, partly a question but more so a statement.

Tucker sat back down, but he didn’t get comfortable. The atmosphere had changed, and he blew a deep breath out as the realisation hit him that he was out of time. “Yeah,” he said, simply.

“Which isn’t because you fight there."

Tucker began to nod, then froze. “How do you know that?”

Wash froze, too. He realised that if he mentioned Felix had told him, it would open up more questions than he could really answer. “You don’t have excessive bruising,” he began, thoughtfully. "No scrapes, cuts, signs of frequent fighting — you flinch a lot, but... you don’t act like I do.”

It was clear he’d been thinking about it before this, and Tucker felt another stab of guilt for avoiding it for so long. His resolve partially steeled, he nodded. “Yeah, well. You’re right. I don’t fight there.”

Wash waited, but that’s as far as Tucker got, his brain balking at the idea of telling the truth. No words came to him, no way of phrasing, no way to put it to express what he did do there, but he’d already admitted it wasn’t fighting, and he couldn’t hide it anymore.

“Tucker?” Wash prompted.

Tucker tried, but the words refused to come out. He thought back quickly, his brain racing to grab on to some way for him to physically express it, before he caught onto something. "God," he sighed, tired and defeated all at once at the prospect of what he'd have to say. "Okay, here goes. You know how I said I fucked up the first time, with Junior?"

He didn't give Wash a chance to say a word before it was out, the words pulled from within him.

"I overdosed. On heroin." 

The words cracked through the air like a whip, and Wash’s response was immediate. He jerked back, his expression stunned and transparent and everything Tucker didn’t want to see so he didn’t; he closed his eyes and turned away. Pretended he hadn’t potentially fucked this all up because of his own stupidity when he already knew how good Wash could be for him.

When he opened his eyes and forced himself back into reality, he realised silence had fallen. Wash wasn’t looking at him, but after several seconds he regained his composure, his expression falling blank, and searched for something to say.

“Are you—?” he started, and to Tucker’s disappointment, he left the question hanging.

Tucker swallowed, averted it. “Saying I fucked up? Yeah. Saying I left Junior crying for hours on end while it happened? I _told you._  I—"

He cut himself off, an odd form of self-protection rising up in a last minute to try and keep himself from making it any worse. Wash stared at him, and Tucker could only stand under the weight of it for a few long seconds before he turned away. He considered leaving, taking the way out he knew Wash would want to take, but there was still so much left unsaid, so much explaining he knew he’d regret not being able to do. And Wash — Wash, who was usually the first one on his feet and out of the room — was sitting there, watching him, waiting.

He hadn’t ran yet, so Tucker couldn’t either.

“Tucker,” Tucker heard him say, and he snapped his gaze up to him.

But there was no venom in the word, and when Wash looked at him it was openly, with none of the disgust or revulsion Tucker had expected, that Wash had _always_ associated with drugs.  _Yet._

Tucker averted his gaze, the anger mingling slowly with the slimy feeling of cold disappointment as he resigned himself to admitting the truth.

"It's still happening now. It's just. This time it's morphine."

Silence. Wash’s eyes darted back to Tucker’s face, and in the second it took for Tucker to slowly lift his gaze to meet them, he distantly realised he could feel his hands trembling. As they locked eyes, he knew Wash was searching him, but he didn’t have anything to offer him except the tiny tremors racking through him that he desperately tried to hide.

He’d never realised that he was actually scared. Never realised that deep down, beyond the frustration and avoidance and the way he treated the whole situation, was fear. He didn’t know what it meant, or what he expected — and that was the cold truth, wasn’t it? That he had no way to prepare, no idea how Wash would react? But for some reason, despite how badly he was fucking this up, every fibre of his being simultaneously hoped for the best and feared for the worst.

Then Wash spoke up.

“Morphine?” he said quietly, his voice wavering, but he didn’t look away from Tucker.

His hands moved jerkily forward as if he suddenly remembered he’d paused while moving, and it took him a second to draw them back towards his chest. Tucker remained silent, knowing he had nothing to say, but Wash abruptly lifted his head and caught his gaze.

Then, he got to his feet. He emerged out from the shadow of underneath Tucker’s bunk without taking his eyes away from him, and almost as if he was doing it without thinking, Wash stepped forwards, reached out a hand towards Tucker and only stilling when he flinched away. Tucker watched as Wash’s gaze dropped to his own outstretched hand before he abruptly retracted it, and Tucker knew what he’d been going to do, knew he’d been reaching out to expose Tucker’s underarm and see for himself the evidence.

He also knew that the fact that his instinct was to pull his arms away and cradle them into his chest told Wash exactly what he’d find there. Silence reigned, as if Wash knew he had even more to tell.

Almost without being aware of it, Tucker began speaking. “When we go to Felix’s, we use. And we give it to other kids to use. In return for money.”

He couldn’t look at Wash when he said it, aware that his explanation, though stilted, would be understood immediately. He turned his head away, directed his eyes to the floor, the walls, anywhere but Wash, because if he didn’t see his reaction firsthand he wouldn’t have to think about it. Wouldn’t have to see the disappointment, because that’s what he feared most, not violence or anger or disgust, but disappointment.

So he turned away, so he wouldn’t have to see any of that directed at him, because he knew he’d never be able to stop seeing it reflected back at him from the depths of Wash’s steely eyes. That thought alone, that Wash’s reaction to this would haunt him forever, drew the next words out of his mouth before he was aware of them.

“And I… am going to stop.”

The silence that followed was thunderous, but short lived. Tucker’s jaw worked, searching for words, for an explanation, for forgiveness, because he’d made this decision well before he’d told Wash but he was only just realising it.

“I’m gunna stop going to fucking Felix’s, because— well, because I hate it there, because he’s there — but…”

Simmons’ words rang in his head.

_“Just tell him, then tell him exactly how you feel, and that if it means something to him, which it does, then you’ll make an effort to stop.”_

“… But because I want you to forgive me, and because I don’t want you to hate me, and because it’s fucked up and probably more than a bit dangerous, whatever. But… because I really, really don’t want you to hate me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wash pull back, whether in surprise or something else he didn’t know. He couldn’t force himself to lift his gaze from the ground and meet his eye, still scared of seeing what he knew he couldn’t handle reflected back at him. He tensed when Wash began to speak.

“Not because of them? Because of what it could be doing to them?”

For a long moment, Tucker debated telling him the truth. He knew what he was thinking, knew he was comparing it to those who he’d seen fall victim, and his immediate response was to lie, to shrug and say “Well yeah, for them too, because I fucking get it, believe me.”

Yet he hesitated, and he couldn’t figure out his reasoning for why. So he went with his gut and swallowed down his pride. “Not really. I know that makes me sort of a bad person, I guess, but… I don’t know. I don’t care about them. Not really.”

“Then why—?”

Tucker made a noise of frustration. Words failed him, so after a moment he lifted his arm and gestured towards him, momentary anger making his movements jerky. But he knew he wouldn’t get through this easy, had known from the start, so he once more swallowed it down and forced himself to respond properly.

“Simmons told me being honest with you was the best fucking thing I could do,” he admitted. “And he’s, well, actually kinda smart sometimes. So I’m doing it for you, because of… of everything I said before.”

Wash let him trail off, watching him for a few moments, picking him apart with his gaze while Tucker fought the urge to squirm underneath it. After what felt like an eternity, Tucker spoke up again.

“Listen, Wash, you have every right to you know, hate me — I don’t know. I just... I don’t think I can quit. Not morphine, not now. Not just yet,” he said, voice tinged with desperation. “But even though that fucks everything up, I don’t think I can stop it. But I promise you, if it matters even the fucking slightest, I will stop. Going. To Felix’s.”

The suspicious look faded, and the same wary, cautious look came over Wash’s face, his hesitance at the entire situation giving away his emotional turmoil. After a few moments, Tucker dropped his gaze, unwilling to watch the expressions he could barely decipher flit across Wash's face as he determined how he’d react. Tucker had given all he could, been as honest as he could be.

“You’ll stop going to Felix’s,” he heard Wash say, and he knew he was trying to make it all make sense to him, in a way he could comprehend and deal with. “But you won’t stop this.”

Before he could respond, he felt a hand around his wrist as Wash reached out and clasped it. He didn’t resist as his arm was gently turned, and the track marks on his dark skin were exposed to the light. He heard Wash suck in a deep breath, and he wasn’t even aware that he was holding his own until Wash released him.

“I can’t,” he said, finally. “Not right now. It’d be too hard. It’s fucking everywhere in this place, you can’t avoid it. Like Grif when there's food around."

Wash's face tightened with disbelief, but he didn't challenge him on it. Instead, he fixed Tucker with a scrutinising look, steely gaze picking him apart. He stared back, helpless, lettinh him, until Wash pulled back and looked down at him over the bridge of his nose.

“It’s curious that you mentioned Grif,” he said, mildly.

With a pang, Tucker realised what was going on. The second that he’d mentioned Grif, it had reminded Wash of their connection, their secrets, and everything that Wash didn’t know about when it was just Grif and Tucker, alone in the afternoons. For a long moment, it looked like Wash debated over pushing the issue, over pressing to see if Tucker would open up about it. Something in Tucker told him he would, and that in his vulnerability, his search for Wash’s forgiveness would leave him trailing explanations until Wash was satisfied.

And, moments later, Wash did exactly that. “It’s Grif who gives it to you, isn’t it?” he asked.

The question was quiet, but his words were hard, and Tucker knew no matter what he said, Wash already knew. Regardless, his reaction gave away all the answers Wash needed — as soon as he was asked, he’d glanced away, and only a second later realised his mistake.

Too late. When he looked back, Wash’s eyes were narrowed.

“It’s not his fault,” Tucker said, but Wash’s eyes only narrowed further. He quickly gave up on that, felt himself move to pull away, but Wash was still holding onto him and he didn’t dare break that connection.

“If you can’t escape it because it’s everywhere, and one of your closest friends deals it regularly — I assume he uses too, then?”

Tucker winced away, because he couldn’t lie to him.

“I see.”

There was no undercurrent of surprise in Wash’s tone, only a flat note of acceptance, as if it was confirming something, the last piece of the puzzle to slot into place before everything was made abundantly clear.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker said, softly, and Wash’s grip tightened around his wrist momentarily, just enough to remind him he was still there, as if he could forget in the first place.

Then, he felt his arms being turned once more, his wrists and his elbow once more exposed to the light above as Wash’s long fingers gently guided him. It took only seconds for him to resist, shame beginning to creep its way through him, and Wash didn’t try and fight it when Tucker pulled back just enough to hide his underarms from sight.

It was quiet for a few moments.

“They’re so much harder to see,” Wash said, eventually, and Tucker lifted his head to look at him, but he wasn’t being spoken to. “I thought— I didn’t look hard enough. I never even suspected. It makes sense, but I didn’t think…”

He sounded disappointed, his voice heavier than Tucker had ever heard it, weighed down, and he felt his heart give a painful twist at the idea that it was directed towards him. That it was because of him. Wash shook his head, and Tucker ached painfully, wishing he was anywhere else, afraid of what he’d say next and what it could do to him. He never could have predicted the next words from Wash’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, Tucker.”

Tucker’s breath caught in his throat, and he shook his head, his eyes widening as he desperately tried to catch Wash’s eye. The word seemed to fill the air around him, and for a second he couldn’t breathe, because that could only mean one thing.

“No, wait—” he started, his voice cracking, but Wash was quick to step forward again, and before he knew it Wash's hand was closing gently around his wrist. His gaze was torn from Wash’s long fingers as Wash ducked his head. “I’m sorry you were so convinced I would hate you,” he clarified, his voice gentle and surprisingly clear. “That I wouldn’t forgive you for it. However long that has been the reason you’ve been hiding it — I’m sorry.”

The pressure on Tucker’s chest began to lessen, agonisingly slowly.

“I may— I may hate it, and I do,” Wash emphasised, “But not you. Addiction is something you suffer from,” he said, slowly, and his eyes focused solely on Tucker’s arms, turning them over and over again under the harsh fluorescent lights. “I understand that. And it’s clear that one way or another, you suffer too. So, I’m sorry that I didn’t figure it out earlier.”

“You’re not mad,” he tried, his voice flat and astoundingly empty of hope, because what he was seeing defied every expectation he’d held but it was undeniably happening.

The grip tightened for a second before it loosened again, and Tucker’s stomach lurched at the idea of being released. He didn’t realise he’d reached up his other hand to grab him, to prevent him from moving away despite how terrible of an idea that could be, until his hand was fisted in the material of Wash’s shirt and Wash’s other hand was circled around his wrist — not restraining him, but as if he’d moved to, and stopped at the final second. Tucker knew if he’d wanted to stop him, he would have, but Wash’s hands squeezed gently around both his wrists as he spoke.

“No, I’m not,” he said, and Tucker was sure he imagined the tiny undercurrent of relief to Wash’s voice. “Not at you."

Beneath his hands, temporarily, he felt Tucker still. A half-second later he was shaking again, slightly more than before, as he looked everywhere but Wash.

“At who?” he asked.

But then Wash released his wrists, only to pull him closer, tugging Tucker towards him until his arms were wrapped around him and Tucker found himself abruptly pulled against Wash's chest. Without even a moment of hesitation, Tucker threw his arms up and fell into the embrace.


	21. i'll be judge, i'll be jury, i'll try the whole cause and condemn you to death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy the lil bit of pov swap because i just had to explore it
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

Wash wasn’t sure how long it took. Minutes bled into one another, while boys walking past offered occasional stares with varying degrees of curiosity at the pair. Wash met their gazes one by one, stubbornly, in a sense of protectiveness that left every inch of him aching to keep Tucker from harm. More than that, a part of him revelled in the feeling of Tucker’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, in the comfort and understanding and forgiveness of what had come between them.

Until, finally, he felt Tucker start to pull away. He wasn’t sure whether he imagined the continued shakiness to Tucker’s hands, but he knew he didn’t imagine his reaction, the sudden and almost overwhelming impulse to reach up and grab them, secure them with his own until the trembling had abated completely. Instead, he pulled back, an automatic secondary reaction to keep himself in check, and before he’d realised what he’d done, Tucker had pulled back too. And then they were standing in front of each other, coldness settling on their bodies where only moments ago they’d been pressed against one another’s warmth.

They looked at each other.

“Wash,” Tucker said, at the same time Wash spoke.

“Tucker, if you say _no homo_ , I’m—"

Tucker burst into genuine laughter. “I wasn’t going to,” he assured, but Wash didn’t respond, revelling in the moment.

Even without all that was going on, hearing Tucker laugh beyond his usual snicker was a rare occurrence. When it died down, it was followed immediately by a yawn.

“I’m tired as hell,” Tucker said, and rubbed at his eyes.

There was a quality to his voice, rough and lower than usual and signifying the mental exhaustion Wash was so prone to. Immediately, he was flooded with sympathy, and he was quick to gesture towards his bunk.

“You should sleep,” he offered. “It’ll be getting around shower time now, and it’s important that you feel as well-rested as possible to deal with everything going on.”

“You mean you…” Tucker started to say, but he trailed off when he glanced half-heartedly at the bunk Wash had indicated to. “Your bed?” he questioned, and Wash knew he was waiting to see if he would correct his mistake.

“Well, it’s less effort than climbing all the way up to yours.”

It was a weak excuse and they both knew it, but the way Tucker’s lips twitched back over his teeth in the beginnings of a smile made it worthy in Wash’s eyes. With his resolve steeled, he gestured towards his bed once again, this time more firmly. “Sleep,” he encouraged, simply.

Tucker frowned. “What about you?” he asked, tilting his head towards him.

There was a brief second of hesitation before Wash responded. “Showers.”

In return, Tucker rolled his eyes. “Figures,” he said, but the smile that had been dancing on the edges of his lips before finally broke free as he ducked his head and moved self-consciously towards Wash’s bed.

There were so many things they both still wanted to say. Conversations that weren’t quite finished yet, but enough had been said for it to be bordering on okay now — okay enough, at least, for Tucker to be more tired than anything, and for a plan to be forming in Wash’s mind that left him tingling with faint trepidation.

“Hey Wash?” Tucker tried, from where he’d gathered the courage to begin settling himself in Wash’s bed. He hesitated, then barrelled on. “Is it weird to miss someone you probably shouldn’t miss?”

The question took Wash by surprise. "I guess it depends," he said, after a moment of watching him.

Tucker nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t sound satisfied with the answer.

Wash racked through his brain for any clues, any context or information that would provide more insight into the question. When he found none, he looked back at Tucker, this time with curiosity knitting his eyebrows closer together. "Not for me," he finally said. "Not anybody I shouldn't."

Tucker nodded, trained his gaze on the floor. Wash picked up on it immediately. 

“I’ve missed a few people,” he said, and this time he was arguing against the unspoken assumption that Tucker had just arrived at. 

Tucker immediately looked up, a momentary frown twisting the corners of his mouth before it faded into a curious purse of his lips. “Like who?” he prompted.

This time, there was no hesitation. "You."

Tucker pulled back, a snarky comment beginning to form on his lips before he quickly cut it off, his eyes widening as Wash’s words registered. He immediately leaned forward again, although it made no difference.

“You’re saying you missed me?” he demanded, and Wash couldn’t imagine the insecurities that would make him question what was a blatantly clear statement. “Even despite everything, though?” 

“Obviously,” Wash responded, unable to help the minor tinge of embarrassment at the Tucker’s reaction. He paused, chewing over his words, but the way Tucker watched him curiously prompted him to go ahead. “It’s not always logical. Regardless of what had happened between us before this, I can’t deny that I was aware of your absence... in a particular way," he finished, lamely, unable to say it outright, but Tucker simply stared at him with a dawning light in his dark eyes.

"You missed me," he stated, and Wash winced even as he nodded. "Tell me about it."

Wash felt a tiny bit vulnerable, aware he was expressing his thoughts and feelings to someone he was still on rocky ground with, but that someone was Tucker, and Tucker was asking, so before he could think too much into it he was voicing his response aloud.

“You... crossed my mind a lot. Mostly concern, and apprehension, considering the circumstances and the note we’d ended on, and the fact that you’d disappeared without telling me—“

“Yeah, okay,” Tucker interrupted.

Wash paused, scanning him, and he realised there was underlying disappointment. He considered that, still watching Tucker, before he continued.

“You didn’t let me finish. There were also other things. Things we’d shared between us. Walking the halls alone. Showers. Things I suppose I'm not used to doing by myself," he said, and when he glanced away, he was quick to look back. “I guess you could call them reminders.”

“You were reminded of me. Because you missed me."

"I thought I made that pretty clear."

"Well, good. I was talking about you too, when I asked."

Wash raised an eyebrow. "I see. Well, I’m glad I wasn’t the only one,” he said, and a note of warmth was audible in his voice. He meant that more than he could say, felt like he'd needed to say everything that had spilled, and he was filled with an unfinished sense of relief.

After watching him for a few more seconds, Wash turned to leave the cell.

“Wait, where are you going?” Tucker called.

“I told you already. And you should sleep. After your last few days, I don’t doubt you need it.

Tucker chewed at his lip, halfway under Wash’s blanket, and looked up at him. “Don’t you?”

Wash nodded. “I do,” he conceded, “And I will.”

“But you’re going to showers first.”

There was a brief pause.

“Yes,” Wash said. He glanced away, then looked back a moment later. “But don’t worry about me. It seems you’ve got more than enough on your plate already.”

Tucked looked like he had a lot to say to that, and Wash watched him bite back his initial response, something that had his eyebrows furrowing and his lip curling back in disdain that Wash decided he probably was better off not hearing.

Instead, he sighed. “As long as you don’t cause anymore lockdowns,” he said, something that didn’t sound like it should be a joke, that for all intents and purposes shouldn’t have been a joke, but somehow, it was.

Wash felt his lips pull into an amused smile. “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

Tucker shook his head, and a second later, he rolled back over to face the wall in the bunk once more. Wash turned to leave again. As he took his first quiet step away, Tucker abruptly rolled back over, and a familiar exasperation shot through Wash — and with it, a warm sense of belonging, of well-known ground, directed at the beginning of their return to where they’d been before.

“Thank you,” Tucker said, and when Wash met his gaze, he was watching him intently. “Sorry, and thank you, and, well, fuck. Everything. I don’t know.”

His dark eyes stared out at him, framed by the dreadlocks that hung down behind him, barely brushing the tops of the pillows as he propped himself even further upright.

Wash swallowed, then nodded. “Tucker…” he started, then moved back closer to him, until he was standing in front of him.

Before he could speak again, Tucker did. “I’ve never been more fucked up about losing a friend,” he said, and refused to meet Wash’s eyes. “I know I fuck up a lot, and sometimes pretty big, but nothing like this. I felt physically sick, dude. And yeah, whatever, can’t fix it all at once, but if it can go back to half as good as it was between us, I’ll be pretty fucking happy.”

“I wouldn’t,” Wash said, immediately, and he didn’t give Tucker a second to begin worrying. “I’ll settle for nothing less than what we had.”

Tucker pulled back, his lips parting in surprise. He looked like he had something to say, words bubbling up on his lips, but Wash watched him swallow them back before he could speak them. Instead, he nodded, and flopped back onto the pillow. His relief was practically palpable, and the atmosphere of the room finally relaxed, the undercurrent of tension seeming to seep from it as Tucker melted into the pillows. Wash breathed out with it, and when Tucker’s eyes slipped shut and he didn’t turn away, he knew he was done.

“Sleep well, Tucker,” he said, and the fondness that seeped into his voice was so thick, so obvious, and the way Tucker’s name had fallen from his lips left him burning inside, caught by surprise at the own intensity of his emotion.

It was concerning, really, when he thought about it, how attached he’d already become to Tucker. So quickly, and so deeply, and he didn’t know it was because he’d never had anyone to get attached to before. If he thought about it, thought about how he’d never had anyone to form connections with that weren’t at risk of being killed at any time, about how Tucker was the first person to show him kindness, to be good to him, to help him and care for him and show him genuine compassion out of anything other than relatable sympathy — it made sense. Made a lot of sense, but in a way he was unsure about.

So instead of facing it, he hurried out of the cell, trying to ignore the rush of thoughts that came with his admission, trying to ignore the niggling sense of anxiety that refused to let him go. But the repetitive motion of running away led him exactly where he knew it would, and before he knew it he was deep in thought, thw pieces beginning to slot into place. The protectiveness he felt towards Tucker, the vulnerability he allowed around him when he let down his walls, the reluctant sense of dependence that he couldn’t deny — especially after how readily he’d forgiven him, and the way that he’d managed to convince himself he didn’t care what Tucker did if it meant they could just go back to how they were.

He didn’t like to think he was one for compromising, but today had taught him different. Tucker had taught him different. Despite his detest for it, his hatred, it was surprising how quickly he’d decided Tucker’s drug addiction wouldn’t get between them as soon as he realised that this left it solely up to him to forgive everything, and begin fixing the gap between them. It bled into other things, aspects beyond what he could consciously recognise despite the revelations that were coming to him. He didn’t realise how badly he needed to retain a sense of stability and familiarity, and how that impacted on his reactions. He just knew that if it was anyone else, he wouldn’t have stood for it.

Yet for Tucker, he justified it, and that would have left a sour taste in his mouth if he hadn’t begun to start figuring out why. What it came down to was that it was Tucker, and he cared about him for reasons beyond what he already knew and that he was only just beginning to discover — cared about him with something that went deeper than anything he’d encountered yet, something that felt like it lodged itself in his core and ran through his bones.

And, when you cared for things, you protected them. So as he made his way to the D cell, where he suspected Grif would be, all he could think about was that he needed to protect Tucker.

* * *

 

He slipped silently through D block, passing cell after cell, the bars lining the doors on either side of him cold and unwelcoming, as if they were aware of his presence, his intentions. His thoughts raced through his head as he approached, ideas and plans forming and discarded one after another, until he finally decided to just give in, and follow the course of things.

Somehow, he had no doubt that Grif would be there. Instinctively he knew, as he closed the distance between them, that he wouldn’t have to search for him. That he would find him exactly where he knew he would be.

He was right. His welcome was brief and not very welcoming.

“Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

Wash didn’t say anything. Grif stared out at him from behind the bars. He’d been singing — something quiet and foreign, a language Wash didn’t recognise, under his breath and yet in a way that carried down for cells in either direction.

After a moment of watchful silence, Wash moved forwards, two steps closer. He still said nothing, and an impatient look flashed across Grif’s face. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately shut it, his gaze darting down and following Wash’s to the abrupt reminder of exactly what he’d been doing.

The small bag of powder in his hand was quickly obscured in a fist, but he could do nothing about the incriminating evidence sitting on the desk, out of immediate reach. Wash watched his eyes widen, his lips part to begin defending himself or make excuses. Before he could really begin, he stopped, as he realised that Wash wasn’t reacting to the blatantly obvious scene in front of him.

“Tucker told you,” he said instead, and Wash realised that he’d underestimated the boy in front of him.

He didn’t respond immediately. Partially because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, partially because his instinctive response involved a few things that would probably end up being mistakes. The bars between them were an odd form of comfort, a restraint that bordered on perspective freedom when he considered what they could stop him from doing if he didn’t think things through.

Grif glanced away, but looked back almost immediately. __Nervous.__

“What do you want, Wash?” he asked again. “I mean, aside from bringing misery and drama wherever you go.”

In response, Washington moved closer towards the closed steel door. He looked down at the lock, then back up, and Grif took the key out of his pants pocket and waggled it at him.

“Just a security measure,” he said, and slipped it back into his pocket. The silence grew uncomfortably long, until Grif was staring out at him impatiently. “Either tell me what you want, or—“

“You were right,” Wash interrupted, because he had to speak eventually, and if Grif looked surprised he didn’t show it.

“About?” he demanded. Then, he glanced at the desk, where his needles, a spoon, and a lighter sat. He jabbed a finger at it. “What, that Tucker told you about this?”

When he moved, the shoelace tied tightly around his upper arm drew Wash’s eye, and he stared at it for a long moment, cold and expressionless, before turning his steely gaze back to Grif.

“Stare all you want, like I give a fuck,” Grif said after a moment, but he broke eye contact and began tugging the makeshift tourniquet off of his arm.

Wash watched him for a moment, before he sought out Grif’s gaze once more. “I want to talk to you, Grif.”

Grif snorted. “Really,” he asked, derisive and flat, and gestured towards the quiet room around them. “You’re doing such a good job. And gee, I wonder what the __fuck__ it’ll be about.”

“Tucker told me you sold to him,” Wash said, quietly.

His words were soft in comparison to Grif’s harsh tone, but something in them made Grif feel uneasy. He glanced up instinctively, and reeled back at the sight of Wash suddenly standing in front of the cell door, his hands wrapped loosely around the bars.

“Open the door, Grif,” Wash said, and Grif didn’t miss the way his long fingers flexed around the cold steel.

A nervous laugh escaped the boy inside and without thinking, he took a step back. “Jesus Christ,” he managed, his voice cracking.

Wash’s eyes had dropped to his feet when he’d backed away, but now they shot back up. Instead of saying anything, he stepped back and unwrapped his hands from the bars. At the small amount of distance put between them, Grif swallowed, and untensed his jaw enough to speak.

“What do you want, asshole? I can tell you right now, if you’re planning on beating the shit out of me, Tucker’s not gunna fucking like it.” He was met once again with silence. Impatience built up, tinged with fear and uncertainty, before annoyance at the entire situation overwhelmed everything and he arrived at an impulsive decision and began fishing in his pocket. “Fine,” he said, injecting as much venom into the word as he could. “You want to talk to me? Here.”

He threw him the key. Wash caught it. For a few seconds, he looked at it, before he slowly slid it into the lock and pulled the cell door open. He paused, standing just beyond the entryway, before he looked down and stepped through.

“What’re you, a vampire?” Grif shot. “ _ _Please__ , let yourself in. I’d love nothing more.”

He waited for Wash to approach, but he stopped just past the cell door, and resumed quietly watching him. Grif seemed to realise he was just standing there, because after a moment he jolted into action, reaching out and gathering the items on the desk and beginning to stuff them back into the mattress. Deliberately, he turned his back to Wash, broadcasting a lack of fear that Wash could read beyond, into the tension in his shoulders and the way he kept his head tilted just slightly towards him.

“If you’re planning on giving me some huge speech, or god forbid, try to teach me a lesson, I’ll tell you now it’s not worth it,” Grif said, still facing away from him. “I’m sure that won’t stop you, but at least you can’t say you didn’t know.”

“I want you to stop selling to Tucker.”

Grif froze, his entire body stilling, before he carefully resumed rummaging around in the mattress, despite the fact that he’d put everything away.

“And if I say no?” he edged, and the sound of a purposefully audible footfall behind him had him shooting around and standing upright.

Wash stared at him, expression unreadable, but the entire situation had Grif’s skin crawling.

“There’s nothing from this conversation that you can benefit from,” he said, carefully, and he wasn’t sure whether Wash pulled back the tiniest amount or not. “Take my word on it or not, I don’t care, but if you’re going to ask me to stop, don’t bother. Either do what you came here to do or walk away, because I don’t have time for this.”

He turned his back to Wash once more and crouched back down to the mattress.

Wash didn’t hesitate. “What are you hiding?” he asked, simply.

Grif stopped from where he’d been standing, paused in a half crouch, before turning to look back at Wash. “What?”

“What are you hiding?” Wash repeated.

There was a scoff. “I’m not fucking hiding anything. I have no idea why you think that.”

It looked like Wash had something to say to that, but he voiced nothing more of it. It made Grif even more uneasy, because his chance to talk himself out of the corner he was in depended on being able to talk, but if Wash didn’t voice his thoughts…

“Better yet, tell me what you think I’m hiding. And tell me why I should tell you.”

Wash tilted his head. “It’s in your best interests.”

Grif narrowed his eyes, and some of his fear vanished. “And what, depending on that, you might beat the shit out of me? Yeah, no thanks, not interested. Look, __Wash.__  If you’ve come to start shit because I sell to Tucker, fine. Go ahead, whatever, I don’t care. Get it over with. But I don’t want these fucking mind games, and I don’t want this fucking drama. Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

"Actually, I think this time they are."

"Point still fucking stands."

Wash thought that over for several seconds, and quickly came to a decision. “I’m not going to hurt you, Grif,” he said.

Grif blatantly laughed in his face. Wash twitched, but he remained otherwise unmoving, and after several moments Grif’s forced laugh died off. “Then why should I listen to you?” he demanded. “Or even talk to you, for that matter?”

“There’s other reasons to co-operate besides grievous bodily harm.”

His word choice, and his quick response, had Grif more on edge again.

“I’m not as violent as you think, Grif,” he said, after a few more moments.

“You sure do a good job at showing that,” Grif shot back, but when Wash didn’t react, he backed down and regarded him again. “Hmf,” he grunted, and turned away. “That’s what Tucker said, too.”

Wash frowned, barely resisted the urge to give in and ask what Grif had meant, whether Tucker had said that about himself, or Wash, but it was clear Grif had intended to make him curious, a move on his part to try and shift the power dynamic so that he had more room to breathe. But Wash hadn’t gotten what he wanted yet, and he wasn’t ready to give in.

However, as Grif stared at him, depths of impatience and annoyance emanating from his dark brown eyes, Wash realised that if he wanted to get anywhere with Grif, he had to change his tactic.

He took two steps back, giving Grif more room, and his message was clear. Grif sized him up, and as he’d predicted, he relaxed slightly, visibly untensing enough to alter the atmosphere of the room.

“Fine,” Grif huffed, “If it means you’ll fuck off. Yeah, I sell to Tucker. No, I’m not going to stop.”

“I see,” Wash said, slowly, and even that short response was carefully calculated.

Grif waited, and when Wash said nothing more, he grit his teeth. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked. "Believe it or not, I’ve got better things to be doing. Literally anything else, like welcoming the sweet embrace of death if it meant not having to talk to you for another minute.”

Wash waited until he was finished. “I’d like to know __why.__ ”

Grif narrowed his eyes and gave him a once over, reevaluating the situation to see if there was any easy way out of it. He came to the conclusion that Wash already knew, and after a moment of stubborn annoyance, he relented.

“Because it’s better than him buying off anyone else.”

“Why?”

“Oh, for fuck— __why__  should I answer you?” Grif shot back.

Wash cracked his knuckles, and although the threat was empty, it was enough to make Grif tense again.

“If you knew anything about this place, you wouldn’t be asking,” he jabbed, before he gave him an answer. “From me he gets it pure, which means safer.”

Wash raised an eyebrow, and Grif raised both in response, saying nothing more and waiting expectantly for an answer.

“Safer,” Wash repeated, infusing as much doubt as he could into the word. “Purer. Safer.”

“Do you know anything about it?” Grif asked, annoyed. “No? Then shut up. It’s not like I’m trying to make a fucking profit off him. I do it because he’d buy off other people if he couldn’t get it off me, and it’s more dangerous that way, and that’s what it comes down to.”

“You’re telling me you’re trying to do a good thing by selling to him."

Grif splayed his hands. “Hmm, overpriced morphine that’s probably more likely to be heroin, from a bunch of assholes who don’t even like us anymore, or uncut morphine that’s cheap and comes from a reliable source? I wonder.”

Wash didn’t like a single part of that sentence, and Grif could tell, but the way he crossed his arms over his chest let Wash know he didn’t give a fuck. They’d come to a standoff. Grif had given Wash the information he’d wanted, even though it hadn’t been what he’d wanted to hear.

Grif was the first to give in, because Wash was eerily still and very obviously not leaving. “If you think I’m lying, I don’t care. Just know that I was the only asshole in this joint that tried to stop him in the first place.”

He turned away abruptly and resumed rummaging in the mattress, and it was that more than anything that clued Wash in to exactly what he’d said. His eyebrows shot up, the first real emotion he’d shown since he’d cornered Grif here.

“You tried to stop him,” he repeated.

At first, Grif didn’t answer, but the silence quickly wore at him and he soon gave in. “Not straight away,” he said, begrudgingly. “I didn’t fucking know him, he was just some skinny looking black kid who was jonesing for a hit, why should I give a shit. Once we got friends though, and I got to know him, I might have tried to cut him back and get him off it, once I realised what was at stake.”

“Junior,” Wash inferred.

Grif threw his hands up. “I didn’t know he had a kid. I do have morals, even if you don’t believe it.”

“If what you’re saying is true, then it’s possible.”

“Whatever,” he scoffed. “I could not give less of a shit whether you think I have morals or not. I know I do, and Simmons knows I do, and that’s really all I give a shit about. Not you, not this conversation, and definitely not the bullshit you keep pulling.”

Wash blinked evenly at him. “I don’t see how I’m in the wrong here.”

Instead of any response he’d expected, Grif shook his head.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “I don’t give a fuck about __anything__ you think. I’m not trying to change the subject — __you__  came here, to __me,__  and cornered __me,__ to get whatever information you think is somehow important. I don’t know whether you just want to know for curiosity’s sake, or whether you think it might change things, I don’t know. But listen to me: it is how it is, and you can’t do shit. I sell to Tucker because I’m the best person __to__ sell to Tucker, and whether you understand that or not __doesn’t matter__.”

Wash didn’t miss a beat, finally letting his expressionless façade slip. “And what about the other kids?”

Grif paused for a moment, leaning back. “What about them?”

Wash didn’t have an answer for that, and Grif knew it.

“Exactly. They don’t matter to me. And, just for the record, while I don’t exactly like Tucker being more involved in it than necessary, it’s his fucking decision, and I can’t say I don’t appreciate the company.”

The directness of his last statement towards Wash didn’t go amiss. He knew what Grif was implying, knew that he was hinting towards the fact that Wash had begun taking more of Tucker’s time, more of his attention. He didn’t like what that meant in turn, that there was a deeper impact that he made beyond simply gaining Tucker’s friendship — that he was affecting other people’s, and by the way things were going, not necessarily in a good way.

"Whatever,” Grif muttered. “I’ve said all I’m gunna say, so feel free __not__  to stick around.”

When he looked at Wash again, he was met with curiosity.

“You said you don’t think I’m going to have any impact on… anything,” Wash said slowly, looking up to meet Grif’s eye.

Grif shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. Or do. Whatever.”

But Wash shook his head. “He said he’s going to stop going to Felix’s with you,” he said. “Isn’t that changing something?”

Whatever reaction he’d expected to get, he didn’t know, but Grif’s response had him curiously hesitant. At first, it seemed like Grif was going to laugh, a derisive, doubtful sneer pulling his lips back over his teeth. He paused there, leaving his teeth partially bare as it sunk in, and he realised what had been said. After a beat, his eyes narrowed, and he swapped his gaze between Wash’s eyes searchingly.

“He’s going to stop selling,” he paraphrased, and he didn’t relent in his lock on Wash.

Wash tilted his head. “You didn’t know?” he asked, and despite Grif’s doubts, his surprise seemed genuine.

“Why would I know? If that’s what he said to you, he only just fucking decided it, that’s for sure.”

Wash didn’t know what to say, and Grif’s eyebrows furrowed together to give him a scowl of annoyance. He looked away, then immediately back again.

“Why?” he asked, then answered before Wash could. “Because of you,” he said, and it sounded so pointed, so __accusatory.__

Wash shook his head.

“No, because of—“

He stopped, Tucker’s voice replaying in his ears.

__“—Because— well, because I hate it there, because he’s there — but…”_ _

“Because _ _…“__

__“… But because I want you to forgive me, and because I don’t want you to hate me, and because it’s fucked up and probably more than a bit dangerous, whatever. But… because I really, really don’t want you to hate me.”_ _

Grif was watching him carefully.

“Because of you,” he said again, and it wasn’t a question.

Wash didn’t have an answer for that. Even Grif seemed out of things to say, no more snarky words or demands passing his lips. Everything seemed to fade — the annoyance and impatience completely dissipating, slowly replaced with something Wash couldn’t quite recognise. A silence fell, and it somehow seemed deeper than before. Neither boy looked at each other, until Wash saw Grif shake his head out of the corner of his eye.

“I’ve been trying to stop him from coming with me this entire time,” he said.

It struck Wash as strange, a small degree of shock at seeing Grif so honest and apparent. “What?” 

“Ever since he decided he __had__ to come with me — literally __ever since__ , I’ve been trying to convince him not to go, and you’re the one—“

He cut himself off, and though the rest of his sentence went unspoken, they both knew exactly what he’d been going to say.

__You’re the one who got him to stop._ _

He realised Grif was looking at him in a different light, now.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what was different, or what had shifted, but something in the way Grif assessed him had changed. He tensed himself when he opened his mouth to speak, but Grif saw it, and instead of saying whatever he’d planned, he let the words die away, and they were left looking at each other.

After a moment, Grif moved past him. Despite his refusal to leave the entire time, despite his certainty that if __he__ was the one to leave first, it was conceding defeat, and his willingness to harbour Wash’s fists if it meant he wouldn’t look like he was giving in by leaving—

He left.

* * *

When Wash slipped back into the cell towards the end of shower time, hair half dried and reeking of stale cigarette smoke, he didn’t expect to see Tucker still awake. He said as much, and Tucker simply shrugged.

“Not tired,” he said.

Wash frowned. “But before— you said…”

“When you can’t sleep, you can’t sleep,” Tucker responded, and it was such a simple truth that Wash couldn’t find anything to say to it. “How was showers? I bet the line sucked.”

Wash shrugged, half-heartedly, already relaxed after a nicotine dose and the sight of Tucker again, and decided to tell him the truth. “I didn’t go right away. I actually found Grif, first.”

Tucker tensed, began to sit upright, before he realised that it was more likely Wash wouldn’t tell him if he had anything to hide. He stopped halfway, and propped an elbow under him so he could peer at Washington with something in between suspicion and confusion. “Why?” he asked, simply, and Wash blew a long breath out of his nose.

“To ask him a few things. Namely, why he sold to you, and—"

“Dude, why?” Tucker demanded, pulling himself into a proper sitting position.

The covers fell and pooled on his lap, and Wash realised he was shirtless. It threw him for a moment, drawing his attention to the exposed skin that Tucker rarely showed, despite how confident he portrayed himself to be. He realised he was staring, and Tucker realised it too, because he cleared his throat expectantly.

“Uh—“ Wash took a moment to regain himself, flushed. “Because I was genuinely curious. I wanted to know if he had a good reason.”

Tucker hesitated. “So not because of me,” he asked, and Wash cocked his head.

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” he admitted. “I just — I felt it was something I needed to do. I can’t explain my thought process behind it, entirely, but...“

“Did everything turn out okay?” 

A hesitation, then a slow nod. “I think so,” Wash said, and he wasn’t sure whether it was a lie or not.

Tucker sighed, but it was tinged with relief. “Good enough for me,” he declared, and lay back down. “Tell me the rest tomorrow. And I lied, by the way. I am tired, and I could sleep. I just wanted to make sure you’d come back.”

“Oh,” Wash said. The unexpected truthfulness surprised him.

“Since you were honest,” Tucker explained. “I figured I would be too.”

Wash nodded thoughtfully, considering that, and Tucker watched him for a few moments before he let out a quiet snicker.

“You realise you’re just standing there,” he pointed out, and Wash flushed red as a wave of self-consciousness washed over him.

“You’re in my bed,” he pointed out defensively.

Tucker’s laughter stopped. “Do you want me to—“

“No,” Wash said immediately, surprising them both with how vigorously it came out.

“Okay,” Tucker said slowly. “Are you sure? I can just—“

“No. I— it’s fine. I’ll take your bed.”

“Well duh,” Tucker said, like it was laughable that Wash would consider anything else. “Wait. Stay down here for a bit. I wanna talk to you.”

Wash hesitated, then nodded, and sat himself on the edge of the bed. He waited for Tucker to say something, but instead the dreadlocked boy settled back against the pillows, and closed his eyes. A few moments passed, and Wash allowed himself to enjoy the silence, before he remembered that the guards would be passing by soon to do headchecks and he wasn’t sure that he should be positioned where he was.

He began to move, and Tucker opened his eyes and directed a questioning look at him.

“The guards — headchecks,” Wash explained, somewhat stitled, and Tucker made a protesting noise.

“They won’t care. Just stay here for a bit.”

“I thought you said you had something you wanted to talk to me about.”

“No, I said I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well, what about?”

“Nothing,” Tucker said. “Anything, I don’t know. Shit’s weird right now,” he said, suddenly, and when Wash looked at him, Tucker was staring at him imploringly. “It is. No point fucking around. I don’t mean completely __weird__ , but different.”

“Right."

“Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“And I’m not for saying it either, am I. It’s different, and I wouldn’t say in a good way.”

“So... _bad_ different,” Wash tried, searching to find what Tucker’s angle was in this.

He was met with a shrug in response. “Yeah, I guess. If you want to define it like that. I was just kind of musing aloud. But you’re not wrong either,” he said, when Wash opened his mouth to protest. “I definitely felt… better, I guess, when we didn’t have stuff like this between us. Kinda felt like things were there to drive us apart, if that makes sense and doesn’t sound super cringey.”

Wash nodded, slowly, thinking over it. “A lot happened in a very short time period,” he agreed.

“But we’re back to pretty okay, right?” Tucker urged, suddenly sounding more awake. “I mean, I want it to be, and I’ll be real — I kinda hate that it’s not up to me to just be able to blow over this. To be the one who can forgive and forget, kind of thing.”

“Isn’t that natural?” Wash considered. “It’s interesting you said that, Tucker — I’ve thought pretty much the same thing recently, except the difference is it __is__ up to me to, how did you say it — _forgive and forget_.”

Tucker shifted. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he defended, but he didn’t elaborate on what it was he’d thought Wash had meant.

“Regardless,” Wash said, after a moment. “It’s not that easy. I’m aware it seems to be me that’s wronged in this situation—“

 _ _He doesn’t know about Feli__ x.

“—but, uh,” he stumbled, “I don’t think…”

“Lose your train of thought?” Tucker asked, but he gave a soft laugh. “It’s all good. I wouldn’t know how to finish that sentence either. I mean, there’s not really a ‘but’ about it. I fucked up,” he shrugged. “I should have told you about stuff earlier. Now I just seem like the world’s biggest dick, but the truth is, I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

“That’s… fair,” Wash conceded, because that was what it came down to, and he understood that more than what Tucker thought he did. “Although honestly, this could have been avoided— well, the impact could have been reduced, if you’d just told me earlier.”

Tucker looked annoyed. “I know that, dude. Just like, fuck, it doesn’t help me now. I mean, I can learn a lesson from it, and all that shit, and not do it again, but like… just makes me feel more like an idiot for not realising it sooner.”

He let out a sigh of frustration before abruptly burying himself under Wash’s blankets. Wash watched him for a few moments, a small, amused smile of fondness playing on his lips, before Tucker's head suddenly popped out from under the blankets, his dreads messier than before, and he struggled upright.

“Okay, seriously. I don’t know one hundred percent where I was going with this, but I guess I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

He sighed, and Wash cocked his head. “I’m sure things will work out again, Tucker.”

Tucker didn’t respond, and Wash wasn’t sure whether he’d understood the meaning behind his words or not, but he felt it was best left there. He let the conversation die, and watched as Tucker settled further into his bed, his eyes slipping closed. As the guards began the second round of headchecks, some lingering looks shot his way, Wash began to stand. 

"Do you get the difference between wanting to talk to people about something, and just wanting to talk to them?" Tucker's question as quiet, and his eyes were still closed.

"I suppose I do," Wash said softly. 

"Yeah. I don’t know, it’s probably weird, but it happens to me a lot. Mostly with you and Grif. Y’know, people you can be totally chill around.”

For some reason, that left something warm burning gently in Wash’s chest, filling him with a strange sense of happiness that left him contented and pleased as he thought it over.

Tucker cracked an eye open to peer at him. “Wait, let me guess, you’ve got no one like that,” he said.

He’d been mostly joking, but Wash shook his head anyway.

“You. Sometimes,” he admitted, and Tucker raised an eyebrow.

“Sometimes,” he repeated, but then he nodded. “No, you’re right. Never always. Not with anyone.”

Wash hummed an agreement, and as the guards finished their round of headchecks, they fell into a silence that neither of them were sure whether or not to break. By the end of it, Tucker had fallen asleep, and Wash wondered why there was a faint longing within him, the memory of pulling Tucker into his arms.


	22. clearer eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took a long time between travelling countries, university exams and holding out for a commission which is now done and uploaded!  
> make sure you check out the links at the end for the two latest art pieces for this fic! 
> 
> SPOILER ALERT for the commissioned piece, just a heads up - it depicts the two unrevealed backstories (at this point, Simmons and Caboose).
> 
> thank you so much for everyone who's patient and leaves lovely reviews and kudos - it keeps me going!
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

It wasn’t so bad, Wash mused, if he ignored what Tucker was doing when he disappeared in the afternoons. It was hard, because so much of his time was spent with Tucker that his absence was disconcertingly obvious, and so he was left with a lingering sense of bitter resentment, even despite Tucker’s existing sacrifices for Wash.

It just didn’t feel like enough.

Tucker was still leaving him almost daily for something that Wash despised, and there wasn’t a thing that Wash could do about it. Not a thing, except try and steer him away from it as much as he could, even if it meant challenging Grif.  Yet regardless of Tucker’s activities, the days passed relatively quickly, consisting of an undeniably confusing mixture of routine and readjustment. The core structure of his days remained the same: wake up, eat, go to class, fill the time, dinner, showers, bed, but things with Tucker, with Grif, with _everyone,_ to some extent, had changed.

Especially, he considered, with Tucker.

In between Tucker's disappearances — no longer mysterious, no longer unknown, but still something that Wash dwelled on relentlessly — Tucker was by his side. That was a fact that Wash appreciated more than anything, considering how inseparable they’d started to become, but it wasn’t what he considered strange. Instead, it was something deeper, something inherent and unspoken between them that had shifted to allow for something that Wash didn’t completely understand.

Something he didn’t understand, but not necessarily something he didn’t like. It started with little things that Wash couldn’t put his finger on, interactions he could pinpoint, but anything beyond that, anything like _understanding_ it, escaped him. It started small and overlookable, except then it wasn’t, and it was something about his uncertainty regarding that, he assumed, which left him hyper aware of more and more interactions between he and Tucker: like how, gradually, over time, Tucker had stopped being afraid of touching him.

How neither of them flinched away when their hands brushed together. How Tucker willingly bumped against him. How he went out of his way to jokingly press their palms together in the odd, meaningful gesture they’d made between them. Wash didn’t know why he thought so much into it, or why it left his mind racing, considering every aspect of the situation each and every time, over and over again. He always searched to figure it out, a burning urge to know exactly how the little things kept happening, and why it meant what it meant to him.

While change wasn’t something Wash had ever really liked, he found that he liked these changes a little more than he thought he should.

He put it down to his relief that he and Tucker could even have this after the uncertainty of before, despite the quiet corner of his mind that insisted it stemmed from something else. From _what_ , Wash was unsure, and when he tried to delve beyond his initial reasoning, his uncertain hesitance left him anxious and insecure.  _Overthinking it_ , as Tucker would say, but something kept him from pushing down the whisper of a thought completely, kept him from eradicating it from his conscious awareness every time he found his gaze lingering on Tucker, or Tucker’s on him.

Part of it, he discovered, was Donut. That was something else that he didn’t understand, _just add it to the list,_ he knew there was something, some correlation and reason that had clicked in the confines of his mind that connected _Donut_ and whatever had changed between he and Tucker. That for whatever reason, the way Donut watched the interactions between him and Tucker stuck with him. Yet he disregarded that too, because in a way, everyone had begun watching them. Sarge’s all-seeing gaze, caring in a way that he would never admit. Grif’s petty glares, always shooting daggers in Wash’s general direction despite his protests to Tucker that he was over whatever had come between them.

And Simmons: how he relaxed nearly completely around Wash and Tucker, seemed to be nearly at home, glowing with familiarity and understanding.

 _And Simmons,_ he thought again. Because, as he discovered, Simmons was a surprise, quickly rising on Wash's scarce list of _trusted people_. It was a tentative trust built between them, Wash because of the strange support that Simmons seemed to provide, and Simmons, Wash supposed, because of the companionship Wash provided that wasn’t Caboose, Sarge, or Donut. In their free time, which happened far too much in the regular afternoon vanishings that left Wash with a clenched jaw and grinding teeth, Simmons started seeking out Wash.

At first, it was just for the period of time that the other two boys would be gone, something that Simmons always seemed to know, despite the fact that Wash could never find a way to determine it. Wash didn’t mind the company, or having Simmons around, despite the red headed boy’s penchant to worry constantly, and Simmons seemed relieved to have someone he could converse with about topics that actually interested him. And he was _smart_ — book smart, Wash already knew, but he found that he’d sorely underestimated Simmons’ social abilities, too.

A strange thing to consider, but deep down, Wash knew it to be true. The freckled boy seemed to be able to read his emotions relatively accurately, something that both bothered Wash and interested him at the same time. Even when he pulled on a completely blank mask, and cleared every ounce of conscious emotion from his expression, Simmons seemed to know. Like when Tucker would give him a small wave and disappear down the hall with Grif, and Wash wouldn’t say a word, refused to give a single indication that the situation they’d found themselves in bothered him, Simmons knew anyway.

Maybe it wasn’t because he was easier to read than he thought, but because Simmons understood. He knew a lot more about the situation than Wash did, and he said as much, and he told him he’d answer any questions Wash had, if he could, because he sympathised. Knew how when someone did something so destructive to themselves repeatedly, with no end in sight, it wore at the people who cared about them.

It was around then Wash realised that Simmons hated it, too. But his refusal to talk to Grif about it stemmed from a different reason — not because he was afraid of pushing boundaries, of asking too much, of putting too much weight and trust on a relationship that was, despite everything, tentative, but because Simmons had already tried before. Had asked, time after time, had pushed and pulled and pleaded to no end, and in return, had been ignored. And eventually, Simmons said, when Grif got annoyed at him even mentioning the matter, Simmons gave in.

Wash understood. Someone as unrelenting as Grif against someone of Simmons’ nature meant Simmons hadn’t stood a chance, and the sympathy that flooded through him at the realisation was all too real. He understood why Simmons had given up, why he suffered through his worries and pain in silence, and he realised that Simmons knew he was doing the exact same thing, and that Simmons had known it since the start. It gave him a different perspective on it. It made him see that even though he and Tucker weren’t like Simmons and Grif, they weren’t all that different, either.

It was around about then that he realised Simmons had begun to perceive things was different to how Wash did. It was noticeable in more ways than one: in how Simmons had started saving he and Tucker seats side by side in school, or how he asked Wash about Tucker’s whereabouts like he would have more reason to know that than anyone else. Or, in the way he’d approached Wash one day, rubbing at his sore leg and complaining about how Grif kicked him in his sleep.

“Does Tucker ever do anything like that?” he’d asked, turning to peer closely at the back of his leg where a bruise was forming.

Wash had stilled. “Tucker and I sleep in our own beds,” he’d answered, uncertain.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” came the response, but Simmons didn’t manage to turn around in time to hide the surprise that had temporarily overtaken his expression, or the blush that fired up his cheeks.

Wash did, though. Because something in him warmed with a fire at the idea that Simmons thought they slept in the same bed — that the others might think it. That it was a _possibility._  

* * *

As it all began to fall together, the outside of a puzzle with the key pieces still needing to be found, it taunted him. Around his head it whirled, ideas and those damning possibilities that he swapped between chasing and trying to ignore.

When he woke up each day, Tucker would swing down from his bunk and onto Wash’s, where they’d stay until breakfast. None of the guards seemed to care, not even when Tucker buried himself under Wash’s covers, as long as he was in sight during headchecks. What Wash cared about more was the fact that Tucker seemed more content there, with the shared warmth of another body, so much so that Wash just wanted to ask why they didn’t just stay like that in the first place.

It grew from that. From the idle realisation that he wanted Tucker in his bed at night, it expanded, seeping into his every day thoughts until he realised that whatever it was, it ran deep. From the start, he’d wanted Tucker with him nearly everywhere he went. It wasn’t strange to consider, given how he’d clung onto Tucker like a lifeline as soon as his trust for him had grown enough, but it meant that it took him a long time to pinpoint exactly when he’d stopped _needing_ him around, and when he’d started just _wanting_ him.

He still wasn’t sure. He just knew that at some point, he’d started looking at Tucker longer, his gazes lingering when he could objectively realise he didn’t do that to anyone else. That when Tucker smiled, Wash wanted to smile back, and when he laughed, a warmth wanted to bloom inside Wash’s chest, bursts of happiness flooding through him at even the most ridiculous of situations.

It was something that didn’t make sense, and Wash liked making sense of things. So he started to list off things he knew.

True to form, the first thing he thought of was exactly that: that when Tucker smiled, things seemed more… manageable. Better. Like a realisation that half of whatever was bothering him didn’t actually need to bother him, and it came hand in hand with wanting to smile back — with relief, with relaxation, with trust and security and the warmth that Tucker brought out every time they were alone together.

The next thing was that he liked to be alone with Tucker. Not just with Tucker, but alone with him. It was to no fault of the others, except maybe Grif, who still refused to treat him the same lately, as Wash did to him, but it was undeniable. Some selfish part of Wash reared up every time the opportunity became available, and it was the quiet moments spent with Tucker that he felt most at peace. He knew, to some extent, that it had been that way since he’d arrived, since Tucker provided the first safe haven, the first glimpse of comfort and security, but he couldn’t deny that it had gotten to a point that was well beyond explainable by that.

He also knew those times were something he was beginning to be wary of. His impulse control was excellent, his self-restraint strong, and it came as no surprise that it was completely because of those factors that he was able to swallow down every urge and every desire he had to say or do something that he was afraid Tucker would react to. Things that seemed to come naturally to him—

“ _Are you cold? You can borrow my over shirt.”_

_“Did you eat? I saved you something that Donut gave me earlier, because I thought you’d miss dinner.”_

— but that earned him odd looks, hesitations and unsure acceptances that didn’t register to him that they were because Tucker wasn’t used to being cared for.

He didn’t know that Tucker appreciated it, because it wasn’t like Tucker to show it, anything more than a mumbled _“Thanks_ ” and a brief flash of a shy smile. So he fought the urges as they came, although like clockwork, things would slip through, tokens that showed how much he cared despite how he tried to push them down.

He didn’t know, either, exactly how Tucker felt about him. It was a thought that he steadfastly avoided, because going too far into it would only cause him trouble and more confusion than he was ready to sign up for. He did, however, know that Tucker really had given up selling for him, and that that in itself was indicative of the extent of it. Even though he was still using, he’d kept the promise that he’d made to Wash, _for_ Wash, and he he had to admit that he didn’t know why it meant so much to him, except that it meant Tucker cared enough to stop.

He also knew that he was almost too protective. The line between protective and _protective_ was something he crossed constantly, and that even Tucker expressed frustration at on occasion, but it was something Wash couldn’t help. As long as Tucker knew his intentions were good, that was all that mattered. Except, Tucker argued, when he kept threatening to break the arms of boys who tried to get Tucker to sell again, there was a bigger picture.

 _“Like your safety. And you, oh, you know,_ _not being in solitary. Or transferred. Just try not to break anyone’s arms for me, okay?”_

But, in turn, Tucker was protective of Wash. Inherently, it was to a smaller extent, because Wash avoided trouble at all costs and was more than capable of protecting himself, but whenever Grif would inevitably start up something with him, the lazy, half-hearted antagonism that he was so good at, Tucker would put himself in the line of fire to get the heat off Wash.

Grif was too lazy to go beyond pointed jabs, and his dislike for Wash had decreased significantly following the initial confrontation, but Wash swallowed down the tightness in his throat every time Tucker stood up for him anyway. The one time he attempted to thank Tucker for it ended up about as he should have expected.

A scoff, and the declaration that: “ _Nothing he says even matters, anyway. I don’t know why I even do it. Probably because I’m so giving and cool, and everyone digs heroes who swoop in and save the day.”_

_“Giving. Cool. Save the day… from Grif. There’s so many things wrong with that sentence.”_

_“Shut up. Hey, weren’t you thanking me? Oh, you’re welcome. Now go to sleep.”_

Except Wash dreamt of Tucker. He still had nightmares frequently, but on occasion, they were replaced by nicer dreams, calmer dreams, where he wasn’t thrown into the past full of darkness and cold and pain, but into what he could only hope was a future, where everything was light and warm and nothing hurt. Where there was Tucker. Always, always, his dreams included Tucker, with increasing strength and frequency. He never admitted it, and thankfully, nice dreams were never something he had to be woken from, because an innate fear developed that he’d call Tucker’s name out of something other than terror, and that he’d give something away.

Tucker still had nightmares, and he _had_  started calling Wash’s name in his sleep. If the nightmare was bad, Wash would awaken to the sound of his name being called, strangled and choked, and without hesitation he’d throw his covers back and stand on the edge of his bed, where he could reach out and shake Tucker gently awake. Sometimes, Tucker would pull into the edge of consciousness, Wash’s name still on his lips, where it would disappear into a soft sigh as he drifted back, this time into a sleep that was smooth and dreamless.

That meant more to him than he would ever say. Tucker had learnt that Wash would help him. And, something more, that made the almost nightly occurrence more bearable, something that left his heartbeat suddenly more unsteady — the feeling of Tucker grabbing for his hand before he drifted back to sleep. Wash didn’t know whether it was instinct or conscious decision, or if Tucker was even aware of it, but he always stayed, almost frozen, his pulse racing in his ears, until Tucker slowly let go as he drifted away again.

He knew that it was when he was back in his own bed, the remnant warmth of Tucker’s hand leaving him content inside, that he’d first started to realise that things were changing for him. Despite the confusion it caused, despite the hesitance and indecision and second-guessing that plagued him constantly at his own uncertainty, he hadn’t considered any other option than trying to figure it out for himself. He knew that, considering how he’d lived his life — independent, needing to fight his own battles and solve his own problems — it was no surprise that he went without approaching anyone.

The idea itself seemed incomprehensible to him: figuring out who he would approach, what he would say, how he would explain that he was _genuinely confused_ about exactly _what_ he was feeling, and exactly _what_ it meant.

And there was one underlying matter that, even if he’d gotten that far, would have stopped him after all: his friendship with Felix, hidden from Tucker. It had grown from what it had been initially, despite Wash's hesitation, because Felix seemed to be a relentless force, unstoppable when he set his mind on what he wanted, and he’d set it on Wash. And when nothing bad happened, when Tucker didn’t turn on him with accusatory eyes and a curled lip, when Wash began to realise he really didn’t _know,_ his cautious agreement to spend time together _just this once, Felix_ —

Somehow, against Wash’s better knowledge, it had turned into more. It had turned into meeting up with Felix every few days, when, like clockwork, Tucker would mumble a brief goodbye, disappeared to dark corners and sharp needles with Grif for hours at a time. And soon after that, when it became evident Tucker wasn’t going to stop, it turned into working his visits with Felix around Simmons, who’d grown accustomed to spending their time together. If it hadn’t felt secretive from the start, it was official when he first lied to Simmons.

And then, as he knew would happen, he had to lie to Tucker.

_“Where were you in rec hour today? Something came up with Grif, so I went looking for you, and you weren’t with Simmons. Was something up?”_

And Wash couldn’t tell him the truth. He’d given some half-reply, a not quite lie because it had some truth to it, an answer that wasn’t really an answer that left Tucker confused. He knew the last thing Tucker would suspect would be that Wash was hiding away with Felix, but there was no real answer he could have given that wasn’t an outright lie. When he thought about that, guilt weighed heavily in his stomach, and he wondered if it was anything like how Tucker had felt when he’d kept everything from him.

He tried to argue that it was different, that it wasn’t entirely his fault, that he wasn’t sure how it happened. And, to an extent, that was true. Felix seemed to have a talent for running into him time and time again, and without fail, he’d find his way through Wash’s defences before Wash even had a chance to realise it.

So meeting with Felix somehow became part of his routine, and avoiding trouble slipped down on the list, because a part of him still knew that _Felix_ and _trouble_ went hand in hand. But as weeks passed and nothing bad came of it, the sense of security that was threatening to cover him like a warm blanket finally crept in. At some point, as time passed without trouble or drama, the shift came from focusing on _surviving_ to focusing on _managing_ , and keeping the balance that had finally been achieved again. With it came the sense of peace, an instilled sense of confidence that slowly bled into his conscious and reassured him that things had restabilised, and it was okay again.

* * *

“Tucker,” he began, simply, when he sat down on the edge of his bed.

His hair still wet from showers, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to him, Wash was relieved to find the end of another day approaching. The quiet moments alone with Tucker in their room at the end of the day were always something he anticipated, one of the few moments of peace rolling through him at the sound of the doors clanging shut. Times when he could relax, knowing nothing could get in, and time could be spent just talking, his attention on Tucker and Tucker’s attention on him.

In response to hearing his name, Tucker groaned. “What is it?” he asked, one hand on the middle rung of the ladder, ready to pull himself up to his bed, and looked at Wash. “I know that voice,” he pointed out, “and it’s never good, dude.”

Wash frowned, immediately side-tracked. “How so?” 

“ _Tucker_ , you shouldn’t carry that stuff in your pockets, you might get caught. _Tucker_ , don’t play with switchblades, it’s dangerous. _Tucker,_ you can’t do cool things because _I_ worry _all the time._ _”_

“I never said that.”

“Oh, you’re right. What I should have said was, _T_ _ucker, wah wah wah, I’m Washington and I_ —“

“What you _should_ have said was nothing, and saved me having to hear your pointless complaining."

“I think that every time you open your mouth,” Tucker shot back, immediately.

He leant against the bunk beds smugly, crossing his arms across his chest. He watched Wash frown, and his smug grin grew as Wash opened his mouth, then closed it again without saying anything, letting out a small, indignant huff instead. Tucker waggled his eyebrows at him in victory.

“Stop that."

“Yes, sir,” he mocked, and Wash briefly wonder why he ever wished for these moments. "Now, dude, what did you want?"

Wash hesitated, the desire to keep Tucker in the dark meshing with his original intention to ask a question he’d been wondering about for days. He debated over it long enough to make Tucker ansty, and he flopped down onto his bed with an impatient noise. It had become such a familiar movement that Wash didn’t even question it anymore. He simply shifted over towards the edge of the bed, and allowed Tucker to begin shoving his way in, kicking and wiggling to make more room for himself between the wall and Wash. The end result always had one of them sitting upright, not because the bed was too small, but because the idea of them both lying down and facing each other seemed to cross a line they both deemed too intimate.

But, Wash realised, it was usually only him who sat upright these days. He turned away to cough briefly into his shoulder, hiding the flush that threatened to redden his cheeks, and decided it was probably best if he just asked.

“I was trying to think of a straightforward way to ask this,” he began, and he knew immediately he had Tucker’s attention. “But, well… Simmons and Grif.”

Tucker frowned, trying to see where he was going with it. “What about them? Oh, god, don’t tell me—”

“No,” Wash interrupted, shaking his head vigorously and lifting a hand to stop him. “Whatever it is, _no._ ”

Tucker looked relieved and didn’t press it, thankfully, and after a moment he gestured for Wash to go ahead, evidently deciding it would be better to wait for Wash to bring up whatever it was than for him to try and guess.

Wash cleared his throat. “I got to wondering. Considering… their differences, so to speak, it seems slightly— well, confusing, I suppose, how they could have, you know…”

“Sometime today would be nice."

Wash only gestured vaguely, looking lost for words. “How did they…”

Tucker’s frown deepened.  “Start banging?” he guessed, then squinted at him. “Uh, didn’t you already ask them that?”

“I— _no,_ absolutely not.” Wash looked appalled, but after a moment, it struck him as to what Tucker was referring to. “Oh,” he said, and Tucker’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh _?”_ he repeated, incredulously. “ _Oh?_ Uh, dude?”

Wash broke in before he could take it the wrong way. “I’m not sure what they told you, but that certainly wasn’t the case. If you’re referring to the only time those words would ever have otherwise been uttered, which was very early on.”

Tucker nodded, slowly. “After— when you pissed me off over, what was it…”

“The, uh, Donut thing.”

Tucker clicked his fingers. “That’s right, when you beat up Donut. Yeah, afterwards, when we had that pointless meeting and I left—“

“It was pointless _because_ you left, Tucker.”

“I remember Grif mentioning something about you and asking about how they started banging. Or something,” he added, when Wash levelled a stare at him. “No? I thought that was… maybe I got confused.”

“You _definitely_ got confused. Alright, allow me to establish what’s going on. I’m _not_ asking about how they started banging—“

“Because you already asked them,” Tucker interjected, and Wash broke off to glare at him for several seconds before returning to his sentence.

“I’m asking about…” He paused to blow a deep breath out, knowing however he phrased it would be ill-received by the immature boy in front of him.”…how they ended up together.”

Tucker scrunched up his nose. “Isn’t that the same—“

“It’s _not the same thing,_ Tucker.”

“Well it’s a _kinda weird question_ , Wash."

Wash blew out another deep breath, trying to reign in his patience.

“Why do you even want to know?” Tucker asked, before he could say anything.

There was a pause.

“Their personalities… they’re very different,” Wash edged, searching out Tucker’s gaze to ensure that he understood what he was saying. “It perplexes me how they work together, and how they manage. I know their fights aren’t genuine, but it still— it raises a lot of questions. How on earth they got together is just one of them. How they _stay_ together is another.”

Tucker scoffed. “That’s easy. It’s love.”

That was the last answer Wash expected him to give, and it took a long time for him to comprehend exactly what he’d said.

“Love?” he repeated, when a more articulate response escaped him.

“Yeah, are you serious? Isn’t it obvious?”

“I—“ Wash cut off once more, with a frown. “It’s obvious they care about each other, yes, but what—“

“Trust me dude, it’s love. Don’t tell me you’re gunna argue it. It’s a weird enough subject to _talk_ about, let alone get a heated discussion going over.”

“I’m not arguing it,” Wash disagreed, his eyebrows drawing together as he thought it over. “That’s not what... I would agree, so far as you say that they love each other.”

He thought about it, and the second he did, he knew Tucker was right. There was a certain degree of something that couldn’t be argued in the way that Simmons looked at Grif sometimes, and vice versa — in between the annoyance and the frustration and the exasperation, when they thought no one was looking — there was something so deep Wash didn’t want to put a name to it.

He knew, though, that it was recognisable distinctly as love.

That wasn’t what he was getting at, however. His initial question wasn’t a priority anymore, instead lost in something else — in what Tucker had said, and how he’d said it. With so much confidence and certainty that it caught Wash’s attention, and something about it that refused to let him go.

“This is a weird convo, dude."

“There’s a point to it,” he assured, distracted, before he brought himself back to reality, to Tucker’s curious gaze dancing across him, to Tucker’s leg pressed against him, warming his skin, and Wash wondered when exactly he'd gotten so close to him, without Wash even noticing.

“And what exactly is that point? Please, feel free to enlighten me.”

Instead of giving him an answer, Wash looked at him, tilting his head to the side in consideration before he asked, “I’m more confused, I suppose. What exactly makes you think it’s love that’s keeping them together?”

When he looked up, Tucker appeared as if he was waiting for him to say something more, but when he didn’t, he frowned. “Because that’s what love _does_ ,” he said, like Wash was an idiot. “It makes you stay with someone despite all their flaws, even if you’re a lazy prick, or a kiss ass.”

“But why?” Wash pressed. “If someone has so many flaws, why would you choose to love them?”

Tucker shook his head, and sat further upright. His obvious interest in the topic of conversation bordered on arguably _passionate_ , and it enthralled Wash to an extent to see Tucker so obviously invested in something, and captivated him beyond that because that something was _love_.

“You don’t _choose_ to love someone,” Tucker was arguing, still pulling himself more upright. “You can choose to bang them, or date them, or marry them — I don’t know, dude, whatever. But you don’t entirely choose love.”

“So it just works like that?” he paraphrased, questioningly. “You love someone, and things work out?”

“Sorta,” Tucker shrugged. “You’ve gotta work for it, but yeah, I think it can always work out. It happens to everyone, some people just work harder than others for it.”

“Even if they’re a lazy prick, or a kiss ass,” Wash returned, quoting Tucker from earlier, and earned a grin in response.

“Or a pain in the ass,” Tucker shot back, and it took Wash a split second to realise he was talking about him.

“What?” he asked, before he could stop himself.

Tucker laughed. “Are you saying you’re not?” he ribbed, but Wash shook his head.

“I just—“ he said, but that was all he managed. Annoyance at himself prickled hotly, but it was overwhelmed by the warmth that had seeped through him at Tucker’s words, and the ease with which he’d said them.

When he looked up at Tucker, the smile was fading from Tucker's face.

“Was that weird?” Tucker asked, and it wasn’t until it was broken that Wash had realised it had fallen quiet. “It wasn’t meant to be.“

“It wasn’t weird,” Wash assured him. “It was, well, nice. I suppose. I’ve never thought about it before, I mean, and the idea is… I appreciated it.”

“Oh,” Tucker said, and let out a laugh.

“What?” 

“What do you mean, you’ve never thought about it? What part? Like, you’ve never thought about being loved, or being _in_ love, or what?”

Hesitantly, Wash lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “Any of it. It was never—“

“A priority for you, I know,” Tucker interrupted, and Wash frowned at him, but couldn’t argue that Tucker was right. “I’m not saying like, you should have spent your days dreaming of settling down with a hot chick and two point five kids, but still. Pretty sure you would have at least thought about it before, even just a little bit.”

Wash shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips, and Tucker squinted at him.

“What?” he demanded, when the source of Wash’s amusement didn’t make itself clear.

“You were so wrong,” Wash eventually chuckled. “With all of that.”

“Wh— how?” Tucker protested.

“Where do I begin?” Wash teased, but Tucker frowned at him. “Well, for starters, no, I never thought about it. Anything to do with it. Not back then.”

“What about now?” Tucker interrupted, but Wash continued on.

“And secondly, I don’t think kids are in my future. It seems biologically impossible.”

“Are you a eunuch?”

They stared at each other for several seconds, Tucker with wide eyes, and Wash impassively, looking for all the world like Tucker was an idiot. Which, Tucker realised, several seconds later, he was.

“Oh,” he said, relieved. “You’re gay.”

“So no,” Wash continued, thankfully allowing them to pass over that, “I can’t imagine a _hot chick_ or _two point five kids.”_

“Alright fine,” Tucker conceded. “Then a dude, or, whatever. Whatever happens when you get out of here, you know?”

The concept of facing that uncertainty left Wash repressing a shiver. Tucker didn’t notice, despite that he had his gaze fixed on Washington, and it was only when Wash realised that that he remembered he’d been asked a question.

“I’m not sure, Tucker,” he said, truthfully. “I told you I haven’t considered it.”

“Pfft.” Tucker poked his tongue out. “Maybe you _should_ consider it.”

“Why?” Wash asked, and Tucker stilled.

“Well, I mean— it’s normal to, isn’t it?”

Instead of making fun of him, Wash tilted his head and considered _that_. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, after several moments, and Tucker looked curiously at him. “I suppose I have thought about it.”

“Oh. You mean like, when you get out of here?”

“Or whatever happens,” Wash said, mimicking Tucker’s words from just before, but he kept his tone carefully neutral.

Tucker nodded once, then again. “Right.”

“And if people like Simmons and Grif can survive together in a place like this— two people so different, in this kind of environment— well.”

He dropped it there, content to let it be, because he wasn’t sure where to go from there and he knew he was better off just letting it go. He’d gotten what he’d wanted from the conversation, and even more, because his heart picked up in pace when he thought about the questions that Tucker had asked him. If it meant he was interested in the topic, and Wash could only assume he was. If it meant... 

“Well what?” Tucker prompted, and Wash realised that _he_ wasn’t ready to leave the conversation there.

But the idea of saying what he wanted to say left his throat dry, and his heart pumping palpably in his chest, so he shook his head.

“Just interesting,” he said, ducking his gaze away, but he looked back up at Tucker’s following words.

“I don’t know about you, but it gives me hope,” Tucker was saying, as he began to climb out from his position on Wash’s bed. “If those two assholes can get it together in this fucking place…”

He got to his feet and looked back at Wash, who looked dumbstruck, surprised at how exactly Tucker had spoken what he’d been thinking, but had been too afraid to say.

When Wash said nothing, Tucker shrugged. “I don’t know. I like to think that it means I’ve gotta have a chance, too. You know what I mean?”

Wash didn’t ask if he was being purposefully vague. Instead, he just nodded. “I’m sure you would, Tucker.”

“Do you know what I mean, though?” Tucker pressed, and Wash faltered. “Like, if I got my shit together, maybe I’d be able to figure things out.”

“I’m sure whatever you put your mind towards, you could achieve,” he responded, without thinking.

Tucker flashed a grin and grabbed onto one of the rungs on the ladder.

“You think so?” he prompted, and Wash’s heart skipped a beat, before he nodded firmly.

He truly believed that Tucker was capable of many things, and even if he wasn’t positive what Tucker was referring to, his response was sure and without doubt. It wasn’t until he felt Tucker’s gaze lingering on him that he looked up again. Their eyes locked and the world around Wash stilled, as the corner of Tucker’s mouth tilted up into what was undeniably a smirk.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and it sounded strangely like a promise.

In one smooth movement, he pulled himself up and onto his bed. It was only when he was out of sight that Wash could begin thinking again, his world resuming its normal stasis as he replayed the conversation over and over again, searching for anything, any clue to give away whatever he’d felt in the last moments. The more he did, the more Wash couldn’t help but feel like the whole conversation had been flipped around and turned on him, and he was left even more in the dark about everything — about how he felt, and _why_ —

Until he realised that Tucker had given him more than one answer in their conversation. In between pointing out that _love_ was the catalyst for even the most doubtful relationships, and leaving him feeling like he’d missed out on something very important, Tucker had helped Wash begin to figure things out.


	23. ground zero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates are a little slower now because back into the middle of university, but i'm trying my best. thank you for the endless support for this fic, i appreciate it beyond words <3
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

“ _Wash_.”

Tucker waved his hand in front of Wash’s face, and Wash blinked, before he shook himself and removed Tucker’s hand from his immediate proximity.

“Yes, Tucker,” he said, and closed his eyes briefly in a repressed sigh. “I heard you.”

“Then what’d I say?” Tucker challenged, and watched with an unimpressed look as Wash licked his lips and tried to recall the conversation he hadn’t been paying attention to.

“You were saying that you don’t like…” he trailed off, aware that Tucker knew he only had a general idea what he'd been talking about, “… that thing that you don’t like.”

Mercifully, for some reason, Tucker accepted it. “Because it’s not true. Not that I care,” he insisted, and his oddness left the corner of Wash’s mouth tilting into a smile.

Tucker rolled his eyes before turning away to hide his own smile, and Wash tried to ignore the jolt that his heart gave in his chest when Tucker’s hand brushed against him as he reached over to pull the blanket towards him.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter,” he decided, turning to fluff the blanket behind him into a shape that he could lean against.

“Then I’m glad you felt the need to tell me."

“Well I’m glad you felt the need to listen, instead of staring at my lips the entire time.”

Wash blinked in return, registering Tucker’s words, then re-registering them, before he began to flush a bright, brilliant shade of red.

Tucker wiggled his eyebrows. “You think I didn’t notice?” he laughed, and Wash couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Kinda obvious.”

“I wasn’t—" Wash tried, but his voice gave out under him and he swallowed, his throat suddenly painfully dry, and his entire body prickling with embarrassment.

It only seemed to leave Tucker even more amused. “ _Hah,”_ he started, and Wash knew what he would hate whatever he had to say immediately. Truly, as Tucker sat further upright, abandoning his earlier attempts to find a comfortable place to relax, the expression on his face was taunting and devious. “You know, I’ve always thought it was funny,” he continued, and Wash couldn’t swallow the lump of embarrassment in his throat long enough to tell him to shut up. “Like who would imagine? Someone as cold looking as you, you know?”

“What?” Wash ground out, and Tucker batted his eyelashes at him.

“You know, that you, oh, fucking _blush_.” When Wash didn’t look amused, Tucker only snickered even harder. “Come on, dude! It’s gold.”

“It’s hardly funny."

“No, it is,” Tucker pushed, and Wash waited for him to stop laughing long enough to argue his point. “Like, there’s you, a badass, kickass motherfucker who doesn’t take shit, and then—” he broke off for several seconds, and Wash stared impassively at the side of his face as he composed himself, “and then you _blush_ —”

He broke off again, this time delving into laughter, tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes as he whacked at Wash’s shoulder with the back of his hand, laughing too hard to articulate anything further.

“Why are you hitting me?” Wash asked, impassive, and Tucker stopped, instead dragging his open palm down Wash’s chest with one hand while he wiped at his eyes with the other.

“It’s gold,” he said again, after several long, long moments at Wash’s expense. “It’s actually gold. I’ve never found something so ironic.”

“It’s not—"

Tucker waved him away, then wiped at his eyes again. “Just funny, dude. Sometimes it happens and I don’t even know why you’re blushing. Like, does it just happen sometimes?”

“No,” Wash said immediately. “Stop, Tucker. It’s not funny.”

“Really? Pretty funny to me. No, I mean it though. Does it just happen, sometimes? Because that’d explain a lot.”

“I—“ Wash started to deny, then stopped. “What does _that_ mean? _Explain a lot?”_

“Just like, it’d explain _why_ it happens, like for all those times you’ve seen me in the shower and gone bright red—"

“ _Tucker_ ,” Wash cut him off, spluttering, but just as Tucker had anticipated, the redness started to return to his cheeks once more. “That’s never happened! Not even _remotely._ When has that happened?”

“Oh, all the time,” Tucker continued, biting back laughter at Wash’s expression. “Seriously, I was starting to think you were digging me or something.”

“I don’t— I’ve never— I don’t even look at you in the shower!”

Tucker’s laughter finally broke through. “Oh my _god,_ I know, dude! I’m messing with you. You might not have noticed, but you do this _hilarious_ thing when you get riled up that involves your entire face going red."

“Enough, Tucker."

“Just saying. Some people would find that cute, you know.”

Nothing about Tucker’s demeanour had changed, nor anything in his tone. His words weren’t even that strange — a statement of facts, but something about the way that he’d said it had Wash pausing before he responded.

“Would they?” he managed, curiously before enough time could pass that would arouse suspicion.

“I don’t know, probably. Probably heaps of people.”

Wash was suddenly aware of his heart racing in his throat. Tucker seemed oblivious, half-heartedly focused on pulling at a thread in the blanket, but he looked up when Wash was silent for several moments.

“Would you?” Wash asked, in a rush, when Tucker opened his mouth to say something. Whatever Tucker had been about to say, it got caught in his throat, because he snapped his jaw shut a second later without saying anything. “Never mind,” Wash said, after a moment.

“No,” Tucker interrupted, quickly. “I— yeah, I think it’s cute.”

Wash didn’t know what to say to that. His mind raced in tandem with his heart, scrambling to figure out if Tucker had meant it how he wanted him to have meant it, whether it was—

“Especially on people with freckles, I think. I dunno why. It’s dumb. But I think it… makes it better.”

“Better?” Wash repeated, and he caught Tucker’s dark eyes. “Why?”

“It highlights them,” Tucker pointed out, and then seemingly annoyed at himself, he shook his head. “I told you I didn’t think your freckles were stupid,” he said, softly, and all of a sudden Wash was thrown back to after the Locus incident, to when they were standing in the hallway, his hands on Tucker’s forearms and the air between them so thick it had been hard to breathe.

Or maybe, he realised, it had been because Tucker had been so close. He remembered hearing his breath catch in his throat, the quiet shuffle of Tucker’s feet as he’d inched closer, the feeling of his tongue running across his dry lips. He remembered how Tucker had looked up at him, soft and open in a way that only now registered as vulnerable, and a pang of something unidentifiable shot through him when he realised Tucker was looking at him just like that now.

Suddenly, it was as if he was back in that hallway, with Bitters and Palomo hovering down the hall watching them, with Tucker in front of him, under his hands. As if he'd gone back in time, but the call that had broken them apart never came, and they were left in a limbo that Wash could finally bring himself to break. His heart was still pumping just as hard, and Tucker's voice was still echoing in his ears, and he still had that same look in his eyes.

Wash wanted to capture it for eternity. In that moment, he felt like he could, because there was finally something he  _could_ capture.

He knew, somehow, that Tucker was thinking the exact same thing he was. They leaned in at the same time, but it was Tucker who hesitated first, centimetres away from Wash’s lips, the warmth of Tucker’s breath across his sensitive skin. He paused a split second after Tucker did, eyes flashing from his lips to his eyes, every last inch of his self-control telling him to pause and make sure.

Make sure Tucker wanted it as badly as he did. As he started to realise he had for a while.

“Wash,” Tucker whispered against his lips, and Wash shivered.

“Tucker,” he murmured in return, and leaned in to close the gap between them.

* * *

Immediately, Washington bolted upright, and was met with a very different scene to the one he’d just woken up from. Instead of the bright fluorescent lights filling the room, and the sound of kids passing by, everything was shrouded in darkness and silence. The same impenetrable darkness that still left his heart beating faster than it should, something he was sure he’d never really overcome.

That was—

 _He'd_ —

"Jesus christ," he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracked. That was too much. He couldn't deal with this.

Suddenly, as if to remind him why he’d awoken, a voice called out his name, soft and wavering and undoubtedly _Tucker’s._

The sound of his name being called so softly left shivers running through him. Goosebumps formed over his skin, raising the hairs on his arms and up the back of his neck. Before he could stop himself, he pictured Tucker looking up at him, his deep brown eyes imploring him, his lips a hairs breadth from Wash’s, murmuring Wash’s name—

Wash shook himself, hard, and jerked himself into a standing position. The dream flashed through his mind as he kicked off the covers, moving on what was already becoming muscle memory, groping for the bars of the ladder to pull himself up. As his hands grasped the freezing metal, Tucker kicked out, rattling the frame under Wash’s touch. Unperturbed, Wash hoisted himself up in two quick moves, until he was standing on the middle rung of the ladder and he could lean over to gently put his hand on Tucker’s shoulder. Until his soft call of Tucker’s name wouldn’t be heard by anyone else.

Almost without his being aware his head turned towards Felix’s cell, staring through both sets of bars to where he knew the other boy’s bed would be. He knew that there was no chance Felix could see them, no chance he could tell apart his movements from the blackness pressing down on them, but for some reason, it left a small thrill of discomfort twisting in his stomach.

Tucker muttered something else and Wash’s attention returned to the boy beneath him. Immediately, he reached out to shake him awake, guilt leaving a sour taste in his mouth at the knowledge that he’d left Tucker in his nightmare far longer than he should have.

“Tucker,” he whispered softly, and tried to ignore the parallels that conjured up. “Wake up,” he added, somewhat desperately, when his brain nudged images of the dream into the forefront of his mind anyway.

He pressed his hand to the warmth of Tucker’s skin, determinedly pushing down the reaction it caused within him, the tingling sensation that shot through him, followed by the flood of warmth that left his heart missing a beat. He swallowed, hard, and made himself shake the boy beneath him, fighting away the urge to let his hand linger.

When Tucker didn’t wake up immediately, he blew a breath out through his nostrils, then quickly reached down to shake him again. This time it worked, but the relief Wash would have felt immediately vanished when he felt Tucker’s fingers seek out his hand and grab ahold of it before he could pull away.

“Wash,” Tucker murmured, sleepily, and struggled to sit a little more upright.

Wash had to clear his throat before he could make his voice work well enough to speak. “Yeah, it’s me,” he said, because he knew Tucker liked the reassurances.

“Yeah,” Tucker murmured, and lapsed back into silence, the calmness setting in and relaxing him enough to slide back down the pillows, his free hand pulling the blanket up so it covered him again.

Wash waited, as he always did, but Tucker seemed to realise something was off, because he made a soft, questioning noise. “W’sup?” he mumbled, but he ran his thumb across the skin of Wash’s knuckles as he’d asked it, and suddenly Wash’s voice failed under him again.

“Wash?” Tucker repeated his voice clearer this time, and Wash forced himself to focus.

“I’m fine,” he said, and tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t leave Tucker feeling suspicious or guilty. “I— you woke me up from a— a nightmare of my own.”

“Oh,” came the response, and Wash heard him sink back down again. “What about?”

Distantly, Wash realised it was probably Tucker’s attempt to distract himself from his own dream, but the very prospect of telling him _exactly what he’d dreamt about_ flooded heat and embarrassment throughout his body, his heart race suddenly picking up, thumping so loudly in his chest that he was positive Tucker would be able to hear it.

And he’d never thought he’d be glad for the pitch blackness, but if it meant Tucker couldn’t see the bright red colour of his cheeks—

— _and didn’t that raise up more memories, bring back “Yeah, I think it’s cute,” bring back “_ _I told you I didn’t think your freckles were stupid” and the reminder that what he’d referred to then hadn’t entirely been a dream—_

He pulled back like he’d been burned, but Tucker’s hand still clung tightly to his, and even though Wash knew he was just searching out assurance and comfort it felt like it was too much, too much.

“Don’t worry about it,” he blurted, and yanked his hand out of Tucker’s grasp.

“Wash? Are you—“

But Wash was gone, all but threw himself off the ladder, away from the side of Tucker’s bunk and to the relative safety of underneath it. There, he lay, his pulse racing in his ears, his hand still tingling with the phantom warmth of Tucker’s touch, and wished his thoughts away.

* * *

 _“Wash,”_ Tucker called, something that seemed to be becoming very familiar, and Wash’s eyes shot open.

It took a second for his vision to focus, and for the view above him to register as Tucker’s face, hovering above him, close enough that his swinging dreads brushed against Wash’s skin. It took another split second for him to register that, and then the sheer proximity of Tucker, and then for his brain to remember the dream, to be bombarded with images of everything he’d imagined doing, to remember how he’d looked down at Tucker last night and wanted nothing more than to _kiss him._

He bolted upright, narrowly avoiding breaking Tucker’s nose with his forehead as Tucker yanked himself out of the way just in time. Wash kicked his sheets away, a blurry flood of panicked embarrassment forcing strength into his movements, and it was only when his foot collided with the ladder and he had a split second of panic when he thought it was Tucker that he stopped.

Tucker stared at him, eyebrows raised. He let out a nervous half-laugh, and Wash ducked his head, regaining control over his moments and pulling himself to his feet, slowly this time.

“O-kay,” Tucker nodded. “I’ll pretend that wasn’t totally weird and scary.”

He swallowed when Wash turned to look at him, but before he could say anything, Wash abruptly turned away. Very steadfastly _not_ looking at Tucker, he pretended to gaze around the room, as if he was observing each object for the first time. The sounds of guards moving through the walkway reached his ears, and through the closed cell door Wash watched as they approached, then passed by in silence, apart from the occasional murmured number or name off the clipboard they held in front of them.

“You haven’t woken up like that in, like, ages.” Tucker spoke up from behind him, and when Wash glanced over his shoulder, he was searching out his gaze, and Wash was quick to duck away from it.

“I guess not,” he said, and his voice came out more gravelly than he’d intended.

Tucker didn’t show any response to it, just offered a shrug, and he hopped up onto the desk behind him. Briefly, Wash noted that Tucker calmed down around him so much faster than he used to. It wasn’t surprising, but it was a small indication of the trust that had been built between them, but it was one that stuck with him, and he tried to focus on that instead of anything else.

“That’s why I tried to wake you up,” Tucker informed him, when Wash didn’t say anything else. “You rarely have nightmares in the morning.”

The response Wash had formulated died away in his throat, a red flush threatening to burn his cheeks at the realisation that Tucker had purposefully woken him because of a specific reason. He thought he’d been having a nightmare, but when Wash racked through his brain, he could only think about his _other_ dream, the one he’d already woken up from.

“I’m not sure,” he finally said, when Tucker made a questioning noise at his silence. “I don’t— I don’t remember. Thank you, though.”

“No probs,” Tucker said, easily enough, but he didn’t shift his curious gaze from Wash.

He waited until Wash peeked at him, and as soon as he caught his eye, he hopped off the desk, and Wash had no choice but to turn to face him.

“Was it about me?” he asked, and despite his best efforts to keep his tone the same, an audible note of curiosity made its way into it, and Wash lifted his head when he heard it. “You kept saying my name."

It took several seconds for Wash to fight down his immediate response, which involved trying to bolt out of a very closed door, and face the realisation that he had literally no answer for what Tucker was saying.

“I said your name,” he echoed, flatly, trying desperately to keep his instincts in check.

Tucker licked his lips and nodded. “Well, just a couple of times. You don’t usually mumble in your sleep, or anything, but this time, yeah. So what happened?” he pressed, and Wash wished so badly that he wouldn’t, but he knew that once Tucker got his mind set on something—

_“I’m sure whatever you put your mind towards, you could achieve.”_

And the way Tucker’s eyes had danced on him, the resonance of his almost-promise in the air after he’d disappeared from view—

“Wash? Dude?”

—and Wash had dreamt of him last night, _dreamt about him constantly,_ but nothing like this, because those dreams were nothing compared to the image of the soft warmth of Tucker’s lips pressed against his, the heat of fire spreading through him and jolting him like an electric shock—

—he’d dreamt of kissing Tucker, of a time that he almost had and that he'd wanted to.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Tucker said, and Wash wondered when the hell he’d appeared in front of him. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Wash pulled himself back into reality long enough to grab onto that. “I’d rather not,” he said, but it sounded more like he choked it out, because he’d grasped onto the lifeline Tucker had thrown him with everything he had.

“Okay, that’s cool,” Tucker nodded, but his gaze was filled with concern and his mouth twisted to the side in a frown. “I didn’t mean to like, flash you back, or whatever.”

“It’s fine,” Wash assured, but he kept his voice wavering enough to ensure Tucker that it wasn’t.

Tucker nodded and went to say something, but shut his mouth at the last second, frowning at himself. After a moment, he spoke up again. “Breakfast started,” he said, at a loss for anything else to say, and gestured at the now open door.

Wash wasn’t sure when it had opened, or what to say, so he just nodded, his mouth dry.

“You don’t want to go?” Tucker frowned.

Wash licked his lips. “I’ll be there in a little while."

Tucker looked torn, evidently debating whether to push him, or to let him have his personal space. It was clear he wanted to stay, and Wash knew he probably would have pushed it if he hadn’t already felt guilty about pressing this far.

“Alright,” he said again, and he made it to the open door before he stopped. “You will turn up, yeah?”

Wash nodded. “I won’t be long,” he promised, because Tucker still looked torn, and it was enough for him to nod and finally leave.

As soon as he was out of sight, Wash sunk down onto the mattress.

_The dream of a memory that he'd wanted so badly to change._

Was it wrong? That he wished he could go back in time and end that different? That instead of pulling away from one another, he wished he'd done what he'd wanted to at the time and lean in, to press his lips to Tucker's?

 _“Fuck,”_ he said, quietly, and put his head in his hands.

* * *

When Wash collapsed into his bed hours later, he mused that for the first time, he’d had a day without Tucker that hadn’t been full of stress. Tucker had gone to breakfast, according to Donut, but by the time Washington had turned up, both he and Grif were gone.

“They said they had a busy day ahead,” Donut had explained.

Wash had immediately turned to Simmons, but he simply shrugged it off, as if to say _what can you do?,_ and Wash had had no choice but to stay quiet.

And the day had been spent with just the other four, no school to attend, no responsibilities that they almost all would have undoubtedly shrugged off regardless. It hadn’t been a _relaxing_ day, per se: naturally, there had remained a level of anxiety that he seemed perpetually unable to shake, but he wasn’t one to take the brief reprieve he’d been given for granted. He knew the fact that he’d been able to relax even marginally was a testament to the way things were changing.

But whether he liked it or not, Tucker’s absence had worn at him, in a way he was starting to realise was different to anything else. And whenever he mentioned him, he was met with something, from Donut’s enthusiasm to Simmons’ understanding to Sarge’s exasperation. It wasn’t so much the insinuation that Tucker was on his mind constantly — he _was_ , and Wash had no problem admitting that. It was more that he knew the others thought of it in a certain way, in a certain _light_ , which he was starting to—

“Howdy,” Felix greeted, and Wash shot upright in his bunk.

For a few moments, he froze, the sight of Felix leaning against his cell door and waving cheerily at him rendering him unable to move. Then, the reality of it kicked in, and he burst into action, shooting to his feet and striding across the room.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, and poked his head out of the open cell door to glance up and down the walkway.

No sign of Tucker, but he had no idea when Tucker would return. It could be any moment now, and being greeted by _Felix_ in their cell would go down so badly that Wash was struck with a growing sense of horror just thinking about it.

“What?” Felix frowned, and didn’t move an inch. “I just wanted to say hi while _you know who_ isn’t around.” He rolled his eyes, and kicked his shoe against the ground, waiting. When Wash didn’t say anything in return, he scoffed. “Oh, come on. Seriously? I don’t even get a hello? I mean, I know you don’t want to _cause drama_ — your words, not mine,” he reminded, unnecessarily. “But would it _kill you_ to say hey every now and then?”

Wash sighed. Balancing his friendship with Felix, and everything he had with Tucker, was something he’d had no choice but to confide in Felix with. Explaining _why_ he’d never be caught with him where anyone could see them had apparently been inevitable, because despite Felix’s knowledge of Tucker’s mindset towards him, he hadn’t considered it would get between them in any major way. The way he’d reacted when Wash had shut him down, had refused to go anywhere with him, had been undeniably _hurt_ , poorly covered by a spitfire anger that hadn’t been able to take away the tone of betrayal to his voice.

And Wash hadn’t known what to do. It was a bad position he was in, something he tried to push aside until he could figure out how to deal with it. Since that discussion with Felix, he seemed to have reached a manageable ground, although Felix wasn’t entirely satisfied with only being seen when it suited Wash. But they had a routine, had a set way of managing it, and now Felix was at risk of ruining it all.

“What?” Felix demanded, when Wash did nothing but stare at him. “I was going to my cell — which, might I remind you, is right across from yours, and I noticed he wasn’t here, so I wanted to say hi. Is that a crime?”

Wash shook his head. “It’s just—“

Felix cut him off. “Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t tell me _it’s just if he sees us_  again, because that’s pretty fucking annoying, I’ll be honest.” He levelled Wash with a flat stare. “Pretty shitty not to be able to say hi to a good friend in anywhere but private.”

 _Good friend_ , Wash’s mind echoed, and guilt shot through him. “I’m sorry,” he said, before he could think it through. “I know that seems very unfair—“

Felix’s eyebrows shot up, and immediately, Wash was met with an annoyed look. “Don’t patronise me.”

“I’m not,” Wash assured, and he glanced around again to double check that Tucker wasn’t coming towards them. “Look — this is a bad time, because I don’t know when Tucker’s coming back, and—“

“Whatever.” Felix put his hands up, and straightened up off of the cell door. “Spare me. I don’t want to hear this shit again. I know you give more of a shit about Tucker finding out than you do about anything with me. I just wanted to say hi, that was all. Forget it.”

And with that, he backed away, before Wash had a chance to recover and close his mouth from where it hung partly open. Instead of going into his cell, he shook his head, shot Wash a look, and walked down past the row of cells and out of sight. 

Wash resisted the urge to lean out and call after him, regret seeping into his limbs and weighing him down. He took a moment to clear his mind, then moved towards his bunk and sat on it. He was aware that this was a bad sign — Felix was discontent, and for good reason. As he sat down and thought through it, he barely even considered the possibility that Felix might take things into his own hands. Instead, he focused on how to avoid causing any more damage, the guilt running through him focusing him on his unfairness, and how to fix everything before he made it any worse.

As it turned out, there was plenty of time before Tucker returned. By then, Felix had returned and retreated into his own cell, steadfastly avoiding meeting Wash’s gaze, and had set himself up on the top bunk. Wash’s guilt had only worsened, aware that his paranoia had caused issues where there hadn’t needed to be any.

“Oh, you did survive a day without me,” Tucker declared, sauntering into the room and heading straight for the bunks. “Me and Grif had bets going.”

“Should I ask who bet on what?” Wash responded, automatically, and he sat up as Tucker began noisily climbing the ladder to his bunk.

Without conscious awareness, his gaze flickered to Felix, but he was hidden, out of sight on the top bunk. Guiltily, Wash looked away.

“Probably not. I’m actually surprised to see you here,” Tucker admitted, and he settled onto his bunk with a loud sigh before his head popped over the edge, offering a dazzling smile. “What were you doing?”

There was a pause before Wash replied, swallowing down the way his heart was suddenly in his throat just because of the way Tucker smiled at him. “Thinking,” he said, eventually, the best that he could manage, and Tucker snorted.

“Big surprise. At least something hasn’t changed." After a few moments of silence, he leaned further over the edge, his dreads swinging wildly. “So what’d you get up to today? While I was suffering terribly.”

Wash thought over his response. “Well,” he said, eventually, “Donut had a _f_ _un day_  with Sarge, Simmons, Caboose and I.”

Tucker winced. “I’m so sorry. You can have the title of terrible suffering. Honestly, I take it all back.”

Despite his melodramatics, Wash shrugged, and let Felix slip from his mind completely to focus on the boy in front of him. To focus on Tucker, but not on how he made his chest feel tighter, or how every time he smiled Wash remembered what it was like to look at the sun. Just... Tucker.

“It wasn’t so bad," he said. "He tried to get us all involved in activities that we liked. I’m still sore from Sarge’s.”

“Let me guess, impromptu sparring matches?” Tucker laughed.

Wash allowed a small smile. “Impromptu sparring matches,” he confirmed, and forced his eyes not to linger on Tucker's lips.

It felt like it was impossible to avoid remembering the dream, impossible to avoid getting sucked into memories of something that didn't happen, but that he badly wished  _had —_ and that was a truth that he couldn't deny either, when every time he looked at Tucker he felt like he had to look away, or he'd reveal something he wasn't even ready to admit to himself yet.

He blinked, realised that Tucker was still speaking, and forced himself to concentrate. 

“Where’d you do it? The only place you could really do it would be at the gym, so I don’t know where else.”

Wash glanced up at him. “It was at the gym,” he confirmed, after a few moments of debating lying or not, swallowing down guilt at the idea.

But he'd seen Felix at the gym earlier, only briefly, but enough time for Felix to wave at him when he’d passed, and Wash had been so painfully aware of it—

And, he realised, it was just another example of how he’d ignored Felix and pushed him away, just at the very concept that somehow Tucker might find out. The shitty feeling inside him intensified, and he blew out a breath when he realised Tucker was frowning at him.

“Really?” Tucker asked, and the unhappy tone to his voice wasn't meant to be obscured. “Like, _really?_ They went to the gym?”

Wash nodded.

“Assholes,” Tucker said, immediately, and he winced.

“There was no sign of Felix,” he lied, before Tucker could ask about it, but Tucker made a disgusted noise anyway.

“So? He’s still around there somewhere, sucking the souls out of people, causing misery, leeching happiness. Just knowing you were in the general vicinity of him puts me off, dude.”

Wash said nothing, and after a brief quiet, Tucker continued on.

“Whatever. Either way, I’m glad it wasn’t hellish. Tell me, though, what was Simmons’ idea of fun? And Caboose’s? Sarge’s was an easy guess, but since you weren’t at school, I have no idea what Simmons’ could have been, and Caboose is just a fucking mystery all around. Especially since Church isn’t here, otherwise it would have been pretty obvious.”

“Well,” Wash said again, hesitantly. “Simmons’ involved a lot of him talking. About feelings. With Sarge. He split us off into little groups and paired himself with Sarge and just… talked to him for a few hours, until Donut got tired of listening to him and declared that it was my turn.”

Tucker watched him for several seconds, a broad smile spreading slowly across his face as the words sunk in, before he broke out into a loud fit of laughter. His head disappeared from the edge of the bunk, and Wash listened as he scuffled around on the bed above him, noises of repressed laughter filling the small room.

“That’s the most Simmons thing I’ve ever heard,” he laughed, and poked his head over the edge of the bed again, still smiling. “Seriously,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I can’t wait to tell Grif.”

He burst into another round of snickers, and Wash waited patiently for him to finish, soaking up the sound.

“Oh my god. Anyway. So what’d you do? And Caboose?”

“I skipped mine,” Wash told him, and the remainder of Tucker’s humour vanished into a glare.

“There’s no way Donut would have allowed that. Come on, be honest. What’d you do?”

“I skipped it,” Wash repeated. “Donut said we weren’t moving until I decided, so—“

“So let me guess,” Tucker interrupted, sounding exasperated. “You just sat there until they got bored.”

“It was an effective tactic,” Wash defended. “Their patience levels are much lower than mine. And I think Sarge needed the reprieve, if I’m honest.”

That earned a few more giggles from Tucker, but he got himself under control before he allowed himself to get sidetracked thinking about it again. “Sounds about right. And Caboose?”

This time, Wash’s hesitation was much more noticeable, and it gained Tucker’s interest immediately. He sat up, and went to the effort of sliding half his upper body off the edge of his bunk until Wash had no choice but to catch his eye.

“What’d he do?” he repeated, and he sounded a mixture of delightfully curious and understandably worried.

“He, uh. Well. He had a, uh, particular interest in… flames.”

Tucker’s eyes widened, and he broke into a grin. “What did he _do?”_  

Finally, he gave up and slid entirely off of his bunk, swinging himself forwards to land easily on Wash’s bed. As he hung, positioning himself, his sleeves slid down, and Wash’s eyes immediately zoned in to the exposed skin at his elbow. If Tucker noticed, he didn’t say anything, simply pulled his sleeves back into place when he landed on the bed, and Wash moved his legs so he could get comfortable.

Tucker quickly settled in. “C'mon, tell me. What’d he set on fire?” he asked, without hesitation, and Wash winced, pulled back to the topic at hand.

“Nothing,” he hurried to ensure. “Not really. Well, aside from Simmons’ sleeve. And one of the racks of gym equipment started to catch alight, but I’m really not sure how that happened. He wasn’t really close to it, it just sort of… but he was holding the lighter, so I’m sure somehow he managed… I just don’t know _how.”_

He glanced up at Tucker, genuinely unsure, and Tucker barely resisted bursting into laughter.

“Say no more, dude,” he assured. “It’s Caboose. I can’t imagine who the fuck thought it would be a good idea to give him a lighter.”

Wash shifted guiltily, and Tucker turned his gaze on him.

_“Really?”_

“Nobody warned me,” Wash defended, immediately. “They didn’t say explicitly _not_ to— and the idea of the day was that it was meant to be fun, and Caboose thought it would be fun to have the lighter—“

“And that didn’t strike you as a terrible idea? Giving a lighter to _Caboose?_ What, did you have to wrestle it back off him?”

Wash rubbed the back of his neck, a flush of embarrassment crawling up and colouring his skin a darker shade of pink, which he immediately ducked his head to hide. “Sarge had to take it while he wasn’t paying attention,” he admitted, trying to focus on the conversation at hand.

“Jesus Christ, dude.” Tucker shook his head. “How’d you even get a lighter, anyway? I thought you were just borrowing off me and Grif.”

Something twisted in Wash’s stomach, and as Felix’s voice echoed out at him from the confines of his memory, he knew why.

_“You can keep the lighter, too.”_

“I don’t… completely remember,” he lied, the words coming out slowly.

“I probably gave you one of mine,” Tucker shrugged, and that was it. “Anyway, it’s no big surprise Caboose managed to set some shit on fire. I still can’t believe you gave him a lighter, though, it’s fucking _Caboose_.”

“I concede that it was a bad idea,” Wash admitted.

“Yeah,” Tucker laughed, “No shit! Caboose and flames? Dude, you know why he’s in here, right?” When Wash shook his head, Tucker crowed. “Fuck, dude, really?”

Wash just shook his head again, but he had a creeping suspicion, and Tucker could tell. He leant back against the wall and kicked his feet up, propping his hands behind his head.

“Take a wild guess,” he invited.

“I don't think I need to.”

A slight pause. “He burnt down a house,” Tucker finally revealed. "Seriously. It was an accident, I don’t doubt, even though they put him in here for it, but you just have to _meet_ Caboose to realise he’s a fucking magnet for disaster. I’m amazed he hasn’t burnt down this place, yet. Actually, Sarge considered using that as an escape plan — give Caboose a lighter and set him loose — but Donut wouldn’t let him.”

“Hold on,” Wash backtracked, putting up a hand. “He _what?”_

“He figured if he gave Caboose a lighter, or like, four, he could cause enough chaos and destruction to work as a distraction while we escaped—“

“Not that,” Wash interrupted. “Caboose— burnt down a _house?”_

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, dude. Don’t act like it’s a surprise.”

“No— I mean… Well it’s not a _surprise_ , exactly, but…”

“But?” Tucker prompted, eyebrow quirking, and when Wash had no answer to give he laughed. “That’s what I thought, Wash.”

“Did he hurt anyone?” came Wash’s following question, and Tucker’s smile faded.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, and he looked guilty for laughing. “Burned like two of the other foster kids in the house, and one of the carers. And, y’know, burnt the whole house to the ground. Nobody died, though. I’m sure they’re doing fine.”

Wash frowned. “This might be an odd question,” he began, and Tucker waved it away immediately.

“Shoot.”

“Caboose is… a strange character—"

“To say the least." Wash leveled him with a look, and he groaned. “ _Alright,_ alright _._ If you’re gunna ask why he ended up here, I don’t really know, dude. You’d probably be better off asking Simmons. I think I got told once, but I kinda forget. I think he said that he didn’t like the people he was with, and when you consider the fact that he burnt down a house—"

“Saying he didn’t like them sounds malicious. That would make sense. How long has he been here?’

Tucker shrugged. “Fucked if I know. I think he got bounced around in the system a little bit, but around a year? And he’s got less than a year to go, so.”

“So he’ll be out soon?” 

Tucker made an _err_ ing noise. “Maybe. Simmons is first, then Sarge, and they’re the ones in the next few months. Grif and Caboose sometime after that, maybe early next year? Donut and I, well. So yeah, didn't we already figure out that you’d be one of the earlier ones? Considering you go in December.”

“Right.” Wash ducked his head. “My sentence really wasn’t that long.”

“Your crime wasn’t that bad,” Tucker shrugged. “And since it was your first offence and all— like, honestly, dude, if they gave a fuck about us, you wouldn’t be in here.”

“I don’t know if that’s true—“

“You didn’t have a record,” Tucker pointed out. “Like, they had no idea who you were. It’s fucked up that you would end up in here when there’s clearly something wrong.”

“Same could be said for you, and Caboose. Everyone here, actually."

Tucker lifted his shoulder. “Spose,” he said, simply. “Think we’ve all been a little fucked over at some point.”

Wash didn’t have anything to say to that, because his first response was " _You don't deserve it, Tucker,_ ", and it was so emphatic and strong that it took all of his strength not to say it. He wasn't sure  _why_ — it was sudden, unexpected, and while he believed with all of his heart that it was true, it didn't mean he understood why he wanted to say it. It was too intimate, and he didn't know how Tucker would react, and he wished he didn't have to worry about that — wished he knew why he worried at all.

“Anyway,” Tucker said, when the quiet drew out into a silence and it became clear Wash wasn’t going to respond, “I’m gunna nap, I guess. I’m more tired than usual, I dunno.”

“The lights should shut off shortly."

Though he couldn’t see him, he was sure that Tucker gave a nod. “Yeah, alright. I’m sure you’ll find lots to think about."

His jab at Wash’s constant lapses into his thoughts didn’t go unrecognised, but instead of laughing, Wash just swallowed down a sigh, the reminder leaving his stomach sinking, reality harsh and undeniable.

“I’m sure I will,” he returned, and for a few moments, Tucker didn’t reply.

“Goodnight," he eventually called down. 

Not long after, the headchecks were completed and the lights were turned off, and not even the sudden darkness could distract him from the feeling in his chest, the tightness, because he had too many things to think about — and unsurprisingly, it all came back down to Tucker.


	24. come round again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to start merging earlier chapters soon, probably only the first couple that flow well together.  
> exams, uni, out of country, assessments, family stuff, ect. i got home from canada last night and ive been filled with anxiety about updating for the weeks that i havent been able to write.  
> either way, its here, and ive got some setout for the next few. fingers crossed it wont take a long time. 
> 
> thank you all endlessly for the support, it means beyond the world to me. 
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

Felix hadn’t looked at him when they’d been let out to dinner. Despite the fact that it was Sunday, and they were confined to their cells, which meant Wash had ample opportunities to glance across the hall and try and make contact with him, Felix had stayed all day facing away from Wash's cell. A clear message.

Then, during dinner, he’d refused the eye contact that Wash sought out the whole time, knowing Wash wouldn’t take it any further than that. As if testing him, he’d walked straight past them at their table, ignorant of Tucker’s blatant glaring and Grif’s muttered insults, because his goal had been Wash, to see if Wash would do now what he wouldn’t do before. Wash hadn’t, and the bitter disappointment at himself only further solidified his plan.

He had to talk to Felix. Had to, at the least, apologise. He’d learned a few things since he’d made it out of the cells. Apologising, in all its pointlessness, was considered a necessity. Saying the words apparently represented a remorsefulness that meant as much as showing it did, like it made any difference. Maybe it was because Wash preferred taking action, and to him it seemed like proving it meant more, but regardless, apologising was typically what was expected when mistakes were made.

Except he knew that Felix was on a wavelength similar to his own, and even if he didn’t disregard the apology as quickly as Wash would, he knew Felix wanted something more — but Wash didn’t know where to begin. Without putting them at greater risk of being seen by anyone, he wasn’t sure what to do. Felix’s issue seemed to stem from the fact that Wash refused to acknowledge him anywhere except in hidden places, out of the public eye, and only when Wash was completely comfortable.

That was fair. Logical, Wash was sure, although he was lacking in the ability to try and conceptualise it as if it was happening to him. However, it was clear there was an issue. If Felix considered him a good friend — and he’d said exactly that last night, said those exact words — then the way Wash treated their friendship was undoubtedly going to cause more problems. But he needed Felix to understand that he needed to balance both, and he couldn’t begin to do that if the risk was high that Tucker would find out.

_“I know you give more of a shit about Tucker finding out than you do about anything with me.”_

Wash sighed, closed his eyes briefly. Let the words circle around in his head until he could figure something out from them. It was the core issue. That he automatically, always, put Tucker first. That every action of his was designed with Tucker at the forefront, considering how it would impact on hiding it from Tucker, and with very little regard for how it worked out for Felix.

He’d just assumed that things were working how they were already going — that while he knew Felix wasn’t exactly happy about having to work around Wash’s schedule, he’d thought that it at least worked for him too. But it wasn’t, and Felix wasn’t going to settle, and Wash couldn’t help but feel lost at that because that was the only plan he’d had.

He’d already put so much time and effort into co-ordinating what they’d been doing, into figuring out a way to manage the potential mess he’d gotten himself into, into finding something that had worked and keeping it — meet with Felix on days that Tucker went to get high with Grif, and on days that he wasn’t spending it with Simmons.

Yet…

_“Pretty shitty not to be able to say hi to a good friend in anywhere but private.”_

He glanced over his shoulder at Felix’s cell, where he could see his leg dangling carelessly off the top bunk, kicking at the air, and he sighed.

* * *

 He caught him the next day in a hallway between the bathroom block and the gym. He waited there until he’d seen Felix slip in, and then waited until he came back out again barely a minute later, wiping his hands on his pants inconspicuously.  _His hands weren’t wet,_ he realised, but he pushed that away to step into stride beside Felix. Surprised, Felix quirked an eyebrow, and chewed over his words as they walked down the hallway.

“Interesting,” he commented eventually, but Wash kept his head down and his mouth firmly shut until they were closer to where the gym was, and he was satisfied enough that nobody he knew would see them.

“You were right,” Wash said, and stopped abruptly as they rounded a corner. “You are right. This isn’t fair, and we should talk about it.”

Felix waited, tapping his foot on the floor, but it became evident Wash wasn’t going to say anything else.

“Talk about it,” he repeated, and Wash nodded. “About what? It is what it is.”

Wash frowned. “I think we should talk about it,” he said again. “It’s important that we get everything straight, and figure out something that’s better for everybody.”

“Everybody, or just—“ Felix began, but Wash shook his head and cut him off.

“For you, Felix,” he said, and realised how that had sounded too late, before he could choose a different set of words, before he could swallow back Felix’s name before it could pass his lips, because it came out far differently than he’d intended.

Felix picked up on it too, because his eyebrows twitched up. Immediately, he schooled his expression into something _not quite_ neutral, but close — there was a hint of curiosity and interest that remained, reflecting out from the depths of his eyes.

“What, you realised you’re being a shitty friend?”

Wash breathed out, closing his eyes for a second before he opened them again. “Something like that,” he said, somewhat dryly. “I just— this is something I believe can be sorted out. I’m not sure how, yet, but I would like to fix it before it causes any problems.”

“And this is how you want to go about doing it?” Felix gave a half-laugh, indicating to where they stood. “What, like, being seen slightly more out in the open?”

When Wash nodded, Felix’s smile fell away. He watched Wash for a moment, picking apart his expression just like Wash had done to him only moments ago. Several long seconds passed while they stared at each other, and Wash was about to break his gaze when something in Felix’s expression flickered, his eyes unfocusing slightly, like he was looking at something that he wasn’t actually looking at. Wash felt his eyebrows furrow, but before he could say anything, Felix was speaking over him.

“Alright. But first, I’ll be honest with you about something, too,” he said, and angled himself so that he was leaning against the wall.

In order to face him, Wash had to turn his back to the open hallway, or put his back against the wall opposite. He knew what he wanted to do, but he knew what he should do, and he forced himself to swallow down his instincts and face Felix directly in a more natural, conversational manner. He pushed down the frown on his lips, because Felix had seemed to understand how he worked, because he worked in a similar way, up until now. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, aware his paranoia was trying to rule him, but eventually, between his discomfort and the strangeness of Felix’s actions, he gave in.

He glanced around, over his shoulder, but the hallway was empty

“You’re not the only one hiding this from someone,” Felix said, when Wash looked back. “You hide this from Tucker, because you’re afraid he’ll react badly — well, I hide it from someone else, for that exact same reason.”

Wash frowned. “I don’t—” he started, but before he could really begin, the pieces clicked together, conjuring up the image of a large, dark skinned figure looming over him. “Locus,” he said, and Felix winced, and this time it was him who looked around, as if he was afraid someone might have overheard.

“ _Shut up,_ ” he hissed. “Yes. If he found out we were spending time together — he’d skin me alive.” He followed with a forced, nervous half-laugh, and shook his head as if to clear it. “I mean, honestly, I’d be in a _lot_ of trouble. So don’t get me wrong, okay — I don’t want to walk around with you everywhere either. _Definitely_ not in public.”

“Okay,” Wash frowned, and tried to shake off the feeling crawling down his spine, mingling with the confusion and uncertainness. “Then why—“

“You misunderstood, maybe,” Felix said, but he waved it away. “I meant more— look, I’ll explain later. I can’t be late. I have to go, like now. But I appreciate what you’re doing, Wash. Honestly, I didn’t mean what I said when we were together in your cell last night. You’re a really good friend, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His words sounded strange, and Wash frowned, trying to figure out why it set off alarm bells in his head.

“Felix, I—” he started to say, but he was suddenly aware of a presence behind him.

Suddenly, _dangerously_ aware, as he realised exactly what the prickling feeling had meant. He spun to meet the threat, but not before he saw Felix’s eyes widen.

“Oh,” he heard him whisper, the words tinged with gut wrenching fear, and it only served to make the echoes of his last words even louder.

Locus didn’t say anything, didn’t react to Wash’s very obviously hostile response, to the thick tension suddenly permeating the air. Instead, his dark eyes narrowed over Wash’s shoulder at Felix, and it took Wash several long seconds to realise that this was very bad news for both of them.

Wash simultaneously heard and felt Felix take a step back behind him.

“Locus,” Felix said, this time finding his voice slightly stronger, although the crack of fear and the tremor underlying it was clear as day. “I— we— I’m just…” he trailed off, his voice seeming to give out under him, and when Wash chanced a glance over his shoulder he realised how hard Felix was shaking.

He swallowed hard when he realised that he was between the two, but after a split second of indecision, he chose not to move, his feet planted firmly on the ground. Locus seemed to realise it at the same time, because his gaze swapped slowly back to Wash, and he very meaningfully took a step forward.

Apprehension shot through Wash, and his entire body flooded with adrenaline, an immediate reaction as he readied himself for whatever Locus’ next move would be. Fear tasted sour and unwelcoming on the back of his tongue, the tanginess leaving his entire throat dry as he sought to keep himself steady and prepared.

With every second that passed, he grew so tightly wound that he was nearly shaking, watching Locus with eyes wide, to take in every tiny action. He tried to ignore the small voice in his head that reminded him that he wasn’t sure this was a fight he could win, but it fed fear into him, telling him to run.

“I was just about to come find you, Locus,” Felix spoke up from behind him, the fear in his voice so thick and heavy that Wash nearly shuddered with it.

When Locus turned his gaze back over his shoulder, Wash took the opportunity to side step, keeping himself still somewhat in front of Felix, but out of immediate arm’s length.

“I— we needed to be at the gym, right? Locus?” Felix continued. Trying too hard. Scared.

He saw Felix glance at him, and he tried to meet his gaze, but the second he looked at him Felix’s wide eyes turned back to Locus. He seemed to read something there, because he flicked his gaze towards Wash for a split second before he looked down at the ground.

“I’ll— I have to go. _We_ have to go, Wash.”

Wash stared at him, but Felix refused to look up. His mind racing, Wash tried to read him, but he only got what he already knew — that Felix was scared. And, Wash had to admit, he was somewhat scared too. Something registered inside him, a thought flying past so quickly he nearly didn’t comprehend it, but he did— and then he didn’t know whether it was true or not. The possibility that Felix was trying to get Locus away from Wash for Wash's sake, even more than his own.

After a moment, the urgency of Locus demanded his attention again, and Wash’s eyes were immediately on his. He looked down at Wash, calculating, cold and so expressionless that there was absolutely nothing that Washington could determine from it. Locus shifted, and he tensed, aware that if a fight was going to go down, it would start now. The dark skinned boy seemed to move agonisingly slowly, drawing out the moments before it became apparent what his movements would end up to be, when it was just his body shifting and his muscles tensing and Wash was stuck in a torturous limbo of waiting.

Locus turned back the way he’d come. It was partly instinct, partly years of experience that kept Wash from relaxing his position, and it was only that that gave him enough time to react when Locus suddenly turned back and swung at him. He had a split second to lift his hands and block the punch that was flying at his face, but it wasn’t enough, and he staggered back with the strength of it. He was forced backwards, and while Locus’ fist didn’t make its way through his defences, the sheer power of the punch was enough to force his own fists back into his face hard enough to stun him as he landed against the wall.

Immediately, acting on pure instinct, he ducked and slid away, forcing space between them while he recovered. He heard Felix yell out, shout at Locus to stop, and he wanted to tell Felix to get out of here — but when his vision cleared, the scene in front of him swam into view, and Wash realised that Locus was walking down the hallway away from him.

Without a word, Felix lowered his head and followed. Head still reeling, Wash nearly stopped him, but Felix glanced up to meet his eyes, with an almost imperceptible shake of the head, as if he knew what Wash was thinking. He wasn’t sure whether he imagined it, and he didn’t have a chance to speak before Felix ducked his head back down and hurried after Locus. In the empty hallway, Wash stood, stunned, trying to comprehend what had just happened, and what it meant. As the adrenaline began to fade, and he was able to think more clearly, his stomach sunk sickeningly, as the echoes of Felix’s voice resounded in his head.

_“If he found out we were spending time together — he’d skin me alive.”_

And the knowledge that Locus had overheard information that was beyond condemning—

_“—when we were together in your cell last night. You’re a really good friend—”_

Past the sickening feeling already crawling up his spine, a genuine fear for Felix’s safety blossomed in the depths of his stomach.

* * *

 Things had gone wrong, but not how he’d expected. Whatever he’d worried about, everything he’d fixated on had been pointless — and it seemed even more laughable now, that he was afraid of being seen too much with Felix, when now he was afraid he wouldn’t see him again.

Felix had said he didn’t want to be seen in public or anywhere with Wash, because of his own worries, which had mirrored Wash’s. And Wash realised what an idiot he’d been. All Felix had ever pointed out was the small things — wanting to wave at him, or say a quick hello —and always, Wash realised, always only when Tucker wasn’t around.

He’d never put Wash at risk of being caught. Whether or not it was partially because of his own fears, Wash didn’t know, but he realised none of that mattered now, because Felix’s fears weren’t a factor anymore. Locus knew, and they were both in trouble. Wash had the bruise to prove it.

He cursed, and drew a long drag in of his cigarette. He was hiding in the bathroom block, fighting down shivers coursing through him from the leftover adrenaline. He hadn’t let himself fully calm yet, kept himself in a state of almost-ready, prepared to act, if only he could figure out what to do.

He wanted to follow them, but knew it was basically a death sentence. Felix had said they were going into the gym, into hostile territory for Wash, into a place that Locus ran with boys Wash already knew he had control over. Going after Locus, he knew, would be a mistake. _If_ he could get Locus alone, _if_ he could win — and that seemed impossible, the unlikeliness riding on something so important — but even more than that, he had nothing to follow with. No way to get Felix away, nowhere to go in a place like this, and that was _if_ he’d even come.

Another _if_ that wore away at him. So he stayed where he was, unwilling to go back, unwilling to leave. But he’d let himself relax more than he would admit, because deep down, he knew there was nothing he could do. Felix was gone, and Wash had let him go, into something Wash had no idea of. Almost without his awareness, his thoughts drifted to Tucker, to everything Tucker had hidden from him about what _he’d_ been through, the pain and trauma and hurt that had scarred him so badly.

Because he saw some of Tucker in Felix, too. When he looked, or sometimes, seemingly out of the blue, Felix would do or say something that told Wash more than Felix probably wanted him to know. The signs that he didn’t mean to convey, but that Wash couldn’t help pick up on. The physical signs. The secrecy. The avoidance. After all, he’d kept the fact that he was hiding their friendship from someone, too — even though he’d told Wash before about the control Locus had over him.

How it wasn’t really _Felix’s place_ out the back, but Locus’. And now, Wash believed it to be true. It really wasn’t Felix’s place, at least not where it counted — maybe in name, because then he could be used as a scapegoat, while Locus controlled everything behind the scenes, pulled the strings, _manipulated._

Wash’s fingers tightened around his cigarette, threatening to crush it, before he loosened them again. It was clear that whatever control Locus had over Felix was bad, but it went beyond just the ring, beyond just using him as a scapegoat, because Locus had hunted Felix down, had attacked Washington just for being seen with him — and because the fear in Felix’s body language had been all too real.

When he’d trailed after Locus, his head down, shoulders drawn in towards himself, it had looked like every defeated kid Wash had ever watched being led off towards a fight they knew they wouldn’t win. Miserable, scared, and resigned to their fate. And that’s exactly what he’d seen in Felix. What he’d let him walk into.

Guilt swirled nauseatingly in the pit of his stomach, another headache promising in the tightness at his temples, and he let it go. He resigned himself, because there was nothing he could do for Felix now. Weariness overtook him, his eyelids suddenly heavy. He almost slid down the wall, the cold ground seeming more welcoming than standing on his heavy legs. For a long second, he wavered, but as he always did, he got back up. With a look around, the bathroom block around him seeming dimmer and dirtier than usual, he started walking. Hiding here wasn’t helping him, even though he couldn’t do anything else.

And a strange realisation crossed his mind. _He wanted to tell Tucker_. He wanted to confide in him, to tell him about it, to express the feelings that were building in him and making him frustrated and weary. The idea of it filled him with a faint warmth, a relief, and it almost brought a smile to his face until he remembered that Tucker couldn’t know. Could probably never know anything about this, because it all came down to Felix.

The smile that had been curling at his lips disappeared, and he tried to swallow down the realisation of just how badly he wanted to confide in Tucker, but couldn’t.

* * *

He reappeared at the cell only minutes before the doors closed, and Tucker let out an exclamation of relief, a _“Finally!”_ passing his lips in welcome as he slid off of his bunk. He stopped when he hit the ground, taking in Wash’s appearance, the rumpled shirt and pinched features before Wash ducked his head away.

Tucker frowned. "Hey," he said, calling for Wash's attention, but he refused to meet his gaze. "What's up?"

When Wash didn’t answer, just reached a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, squeezing in hopes that the pressure would lessen the headache growing behind his eyes, Tucker faltered.

“Uh,” he said, but Wash offered no explanation. Several moments passed as they stared at each other, and finally, Tucker spoke again. “I mean, I was already gunna ask you what you got up to today… but I mean, really. What’d you, y’know, do today?”

Wash shook his head and lifted his bloodshot eyes to meet Tucker's.

Tucker swallowed. “Bad day?” he asked, and Wash paused.

“Pretty bad,” he answered, in lieu of any of his usual snarky responses — no, “ _You could say that,”_ or _“Excellent observation skills, Tucker."_

“Oh,” Tucker said, simply. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

With that, Wash passed by him, and Tucker raised his eyebrows at the strong scent of cigarette smoke.

“I wonder if you skipped showers,” he teased, but he let it go flat when Wash sat on the edge of his bunk and buried his head in his hands, his fingers fisting bunches of his blonde hair, then releasing them, only to repeat the cycle seconds later. After a long moment of consideration, Tucker sat down next to him, then edged a few inches closer when Wash said nothing. “Dude,” he said, somewhat softly, and Wash wondered if he was the only person who could make such a ridiculous form of address sound almost intimate. “You don’t have to talk about it. But if it’s something bad, you know, it’d be nice to know about it.”

“It's nothing,” Wash said, his voice rough. “But thank you."

Tucker frowned. “That’s some bullshit,” he pointed out.

Wash heard him, but only distantly, because Tucker had simultaneously shifted closer to him, most likely to try and get Wash to talk. But all that had done had made Wash more aware of how little they had separating them — he always was, lately, he realised, as if Tucker’s proximity to him was something he should always be aware of. Tucker’s warmth reached him, and all thoughts seemed to slip from his mind for a second as he automatically closed his eyes, subconsciously seeking something — comfort, safety, closeness to someone he trusted — he didn’t know. He just knew that he was pressed almost shoulder to shoulder with Tucker, and it made him feel better than he’d felt all day.

But when he opened his eyes next, Tucker was watching him, a strange look on his face, trying to read whatever it was that Wash was keeping from him. It made Wash tense up again, just enough to lose the moment, and Tucker must have felt him stiffen and begin to pull away because he darted a hand out to rest almost unnoticeably on Wash’s forearm.

“Hey,” he said, comfortingly, almost silently, and to Wash’s shock he slid down and rested his head on Wash’s shoulder.

Instantly, Wash was reminded of their time up in the roof, when his worries then had seemed as big as his worries now, and he’d been hyper aware of his proximity to Tucker then, too. He realised everything he felt wasn’t so new to him, after all. He just hadn’t been aware of it.

After a few tense moments, those thoughts running through his mind, he began to relax, and he felt Tucker sigh in contentment. They were pressed together, in a way that made him ache, but in a way that simultaneously seemed to spread comfort and warmth through him. He wasn’t sure what to do, but after a moment he realised part of the beauty of it was he didn’t need to do anything. Tucker seemed perfectly content resting his head on Wash’s shoulder.

Some of the tension slowly seeped from his body. Sometime later, when the first rounds of headchecks started, Tucker lifted his head. Wash did, too, and turned to face him properly for the first time, angling his body so he was directed towards him — and regretted it immediately when Tucker’s eyes narrowed, and he began to pull away. Wash barely resisted the urge to pull him back.

“What the fuck?” Tucker muttered, and Wash swallowed, hard, even as he lifted his hand to touch the spot Tucker was focused on. The flare of pain confirmed the bruise growing there just as much as the expression on Tucker’s face did. “That's— you’re going to have a black eye from that. I thought it was just dark circles, but _fuck,_ that’s one hell of a bruise.”

 _Could have been worse,_ Wash thought, somewhat darkly, but Tucker was still talking.

“Honestly, what the fuck, Wash? What the hell happened?"

"Nothing."

“ _What?_  Tell me what happened. I don’t care if you got in a fight, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner, dude. Your track record at the start was pretty fucking bad.” When Wash pulled away, his discomfort evident, Tucker groaned. “Alright, sorry,” he said, in a way that didn’t sound much like an apology. “I just hate it when shit happens."

Silence.

Tucker shuffled, uncomfortable. “Come on. Don’t be like this. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

It was enough to stop Wash short, and he became aware of how the frustration was building in him, and he knew it was unfair that he was taking it out on Tucker. With a deep breath, he forced himself to release some of the tension, and he felt Tucker’s eyes on him as he visibly calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “I really don't want to talk about it. Please don’t ask.”

 

“Wash! This is bullshit. What if it was me?” Almost as soon as he’d asked the question, Tucker looked like he regretted it, one hand jerking upwards as if he could grab the words out of the air as if he’d never said them. "Forget it," he said, instead. "I just— Y'know, if you're in trouble, or whatever, tell me. If this is just a one off thing." 

"Didn't you say I was a magnet?" Wash pointed out.

"Yeah," Tucker said, slowly. “Yeah, ain’t that the truth.”

The best response that Wash could conjure up was silence, but Tucker wasn’t content to let it go. He could feel Tucker’s gaze focused steadily on his bruised cheek, as if it could provide the answers that Wash was reluctant to give.

“Tell me what happened,” Tucker tried again, abruptly, as if it would convince Wash to open up. There was a constant undercurrent of worry that he tried to hide whenever he mentioned it, and Wash wished he would hide it better, because hearing Tucker worry about him over something he couldn’t explain only made him feel worse.

At Wash's lack of response, Tucker frowned and tried again. “Seriously. You don’t look too bad off, but I know you can handle yourself. For all I know, there was three of them.” He squinted at Wash, trying to see if there was any reaction. “Four? One?” he guessed, and Wash turned away.

“Tucker,” he said, but it was more of a sigh, and Tucker frowned at the back of his head.

“Come on, dude. Tell me what happened. I haven’t seen you all day.” He trailed off, waiting for Wash to pick up the story, but he didn’t. “If you were just having a bad day, fine, I woulda let it go. I mean, I understand. I get that too, sometimes. But there's more to it. You got a fucking shiner, dude, and you sure as hell didn't have that this morning. So come on, we don’t have all day." He paused. "Well, we do have all night, but y’know. I’d hope it didn’t take that long. Only Lopez could have taken that long to explain something.”

Wash didn’t ask, despite the curiosity that rose in him, because he knew Tucker was trying to bait him into becoming more responsive. He knew if he gave in, then Tucker wouldn’t give up. Tucker seemed to realise it, because he let out a huff of air, half annoyed, audibly trying to reign in his patience in a way that Wash recognised.

“At least tell me who hit you,” he tried, but it was more of a mumble into the palms of his hands, and despite that he knew better, for a split second Wash considered telling him; tried to think of a way that he could explain that it was Locus, but if it was _Locus_ then it meant that somehow _Felix_ was involved, because according to Tucker, _Locus_ and _Felix_ went as hand in hand as Grif and Simmons.

 _According to Tucker,_ Wash thought grimly. _Tucker_ , who didn’t know, and couldn’t. Without thinking, he put his hand up to his cheek and ran his fingers across the bruise. He winced at the pressure, and Tucker quickly reached up and moved his hand away.

“Don’t touch it,” he murmured, sounding defensive.

Wash was about to retort that he _knew_ that, when—

Tucker's fingers gently skimmed against his cheek. He traced over the shape of the bruise; it wasn’t pressing, and it didn’t hurt, but the feeling of Tucker’s fingers brushing so gently against him was enough to make him freeze, and his gaze sought out Tucker’s without him realising it. Tucker looked back up at him, his brown eyes deep and endless, and in that moment Wash swore he was thinking the same thing.

_Kiss him._

Then Tucker moved forward, just an inch, and his thumb pressed against Wash’s cheekbone with enough force to send a small jolt running through him.

It broke him from the trance he'd fallen into, brought with it the creeping, crawling thought of  _Felix and Locus,_ of what had happened, and that was it. He shut off, pulled away. Didn't look to see the expression on Tucker’s face, or gauge what he was thinking, because whatever it was, it hadn’t been what Wash had been thinking, and Wash tried not to think about how close he’d came to leaning in that little bit closer and pressing his lips to Tucker’s.

Tucker pulled completely away, and there was a long silence. Wash wanted to know what he was thinking, but he didn’t want to face more questions, because he knew Tucker would have been aware of how strangely he was acting. Before he could say anything, Tucker abruptly stood, avoiding Wash’s gaze.

“What are you doing?” Wash asked, and Tucker jerked a hand towards the bunk.

“Going to bed." Flat. Annoyed.

"Tucker, I—"

Tucker cut him off with a scoff. “Don’t,” he said, an echo of Felix the previous night, the _“Don’t tell me it’s just if he sees us again,_ ” that span around and around in Wash’s head until he felt sick.

The last rounds of headchecks were being carried out by stony faced guards who looked like they’d rather be almost anywhere else, and Wash watched them, followed their steps as they carried out the same procedure they did night after night. He knew Tucker was looking at him, waiting for him to continue even though he'd cut him down, but another thought had entered Wash’s mind. A terrible one, that burnt with such a bright, demanding flame that it consumed him.

“What happens when someone gets attacked in here?” he asked, suddenly. “Badly enough to need help.”

Tucker made a noise, something Wash couldn’t identify, a mixture of annoyance and frustration and something else, and it was several seconds before he gave Wash an answer.

“They get sent to medical,” he finally told him, flatly. “They get kept there until they’re better, or…”

Wash knew what he wasn’t saying. 

“Why?” Tucker asked, the question almost bursting out of him, and Wash thought he was asking for a reason why he was asking the questions, why he needed to know answers to what he’d asked, but he didn’t have the energy to avoid explaining it to him. “Can you at least tell me why?”

Something rang wrong in his voice, a clear note of desperation and hurt that Wash would have picked up on,  _should have_ picked up on, except Tucker's voice was white noise to him as he stared out across the hall, one thought circling in his mind. Headchecks were finished and the last of the guards had left, and the cell across from him was empty.

* * *

 _Earlier that day,_ on the other side of the detention centre, a figure stood, staring up to the one looming above it, with crossed arms and a cocky demeanour and a request that seemed impossible to fulfil. A request that he’d asked anyway, of the one person who he knew would do it.

“Felix, I will not.”

Locus resisted the urge to turn away, because he knew it would be a mistake, knew that Felix would take it the wrong way and that everything would go downhill fast. But he was simmering, a slow flame of anger burning through him at this ludicrous request quickly giving way to deeper emotions that he rarely felt and had long stopped showing.

“Locus,” Felix said, and Locus knew he was biting back the rest of his sentence, the definitive “ _You will,_ ”, because he knew that was the wrong way to go about this — wrong way to go about getting what he wanted, from Locus at least.

For a long moment, they stared at each other, Felix with determination, and Locus coldly, his refusal to give in to Felix’s wants evident in every fibre of his posture.

"You know you need to do this," Felix said, except Locus didn't know that. 

"There's better ways to handle the situation. If you feel this is the best way, then we should just kill him. End this toying before anything else happens."

He wanted to remind Felix that it would all end the same way, with Washington choking to death on his own blood, but he knew that wasn't what Felix wanted to hear.

“You're going to be like this? Fine,” Felix said, eventually, except it came out more like a hiss, and Locus immediately knew he had something else up his sleeve.

He tried to cut in before Felix can walk off and leave him — he needed time to try and think, to counter the madness that was Felix and his schemes, except that Felix had any number of options at his disposal and he knew it would be impossible to stop him. 

 _Yet,_ he thought, _Felix came here first._

Felix waited, cocky and suddenly sure, convinced he had the upper hand, and Locus knew that somehow he did.

He spoke anyway, a futile attempt. “I don’t understand your obsession with this Washington character—“

“Says _you!”_ Felix jumped onto him immediately. “Hah! Oh, oh no, that’s too good. Please, if that’s the best you’ve got—“

“Not like _this_ ,” Locus interrupted, spitfire, except his voice was cold and low. “Not doing _this_ just to get sympathy from _him_.”

He saw it in Felix’s eyes, although Felix was wise enough not to say it — he knew how to push Locus’ buttons, but he knew when not to cross him, too. At least not directly, because although he didn’t say it, everything he wanted to say was shouted at him from the look on Felix’s face.

 _Jealous_.

He was, but he wasn’t. It didn't cover the whole situation, and Felix knew it, but he manipulated him just as well anyway. 

With a curl in his lip, revulsion clear at the prospect, Felix spoke. “It’s more than that, and you know it. You’re just unhappy because you’re being made out to be the bad guy,” he said, twisting and cruel, and Locus wished he wouldn’t. “Isn’t _that_ ironic. Let me guess, poor you, you’ve had enough of that in your lifetime. Except for, oh, you know, when you murdered people.”

“Felix,” Locus said, voice low.

“No, you know what? You’ve done your part. I don’t need you for this anymore. Nothing you do could make any of this any better for you, because you’ve already sealed your coffin.”

_I sealed my coffin the day I met you._

“So if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to. Someone to pay to beat me up.”

His tone was taunting, almost jubilant. Getting pleasure out of everything that displeases someone else, playing his cards, because it was a game to him.

“Don’t do this, Felix.”

“Don’t make me, Locus,” Felix fed back, taunting and cruel.

His eyes were alight, and Locus wished he could look away from them, but Felix’s eyes had always been something he was drawn to, long before he realised he had any weaknesses. He thought he’d gotten rid of all his weaknesses, but Felix had ways of changing things. 

Then Felix started walking away, and it was Locus’ hand on his shoulder that stopped him — except it wasn't just a hand on his shoulder, it was Felix being yanked back, so hard his neck cracked forward and he hissed out a breath. Locus didn’t stop there. He used Felix’s momentum to swing him around into the wall, before he had a chance to put his hands up, before he had a chance to stop him. He wouldn’t, though. Locus knew that. He had to make it look as convincing as possible, because Washington would have an eye for this, and Felix wouldn’t allow for anything to raise suspicion. Not when it was his best chance to reel him in for good.

“The face,” Felix directed him, and mechanically, Locus’ fist came up and slammed into Felix’s cheekbone.

He didn’t enjoy it, but he thought Felix might.

“Go heavy around the chest, too, but don’t break anything.”

Felix almost cut off when Locus sent his fists and his elbows straight into Felix’s sternum, then a knee to his stomach, the connection of Felix’s face to the wall. He left hand print bruises around Felix’s small wrists, hit him where he knew the bruises would show the most — but he also focused on areas he knew would bruise easily, until Felix hissed at him to _stop that_ , because he knew what he was doing, and _don’t you dare go easy on me._

So Locus didn’t. He went hard, but not as hard as he thought Felix would like, because if he’d let himself fight as he had always fought then Felix would be dead. He tried not to think about that, tried not to think about how easy it would be to end it now, and be free of the chains that wrapped him so tightly to the boy who was so small beneath his fists. He tried, but he couldn't, and he didn't stop until Felix was bloody and unmoving on the floor in front of him.


	25. reluctant man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr <3

It was a while before Wash saw Felix next, and things had changed. The routine he’d so painstakingly crafted seemed to crumble in the face of what had happened. Everything had shifted beyond what he'd ever wanted, what he'd ever expected, and what he ever could have foreseen. They changed  _badly_ , because something crucial had suddenly shifted, cracking open a yawning chasm that had knocked him to safety on the other side, but left him isolated.

The fight and Felix’s resulting disappearance shook him down to his core, and all the instincts that he’d been slowly relaxing found their way back to the surface with force.

He flinched more, spoke less. Kept his eyes constantly everywhere, even as the days passed and he saw no sign of Locus, because life had taught him the hard way that letting his guard down was a mistake. His attendance lessened, both at school and to the group, as he moved in a bubble surrounded by wariness, paranoia, and an underlying fear that suddenly became the driving force behind his actions. A fear not just for himself, but for Tucker. For all of them. Because he knew that he wasn’t really _safe_ , that none of them were, after he’d brought himself to Locus’ attention in a dangerous way.

He was almost, he could admit to himself, driven into hiding. The tension in the group, the constant edginess whenever he was around, the air of secrecy that seemed to build as it became more and more obvious that something was wrong, that he was hiding something — it was enough to push him away, even from Tucker, because it was all too exhausting and all too much.

It was draining, and he knew it caused speculation, but he saw no other choice to keep sheltered from threats that he knew could easily overwhelm him. He’d spent his life toeing that line, never going headfirst into danger, but pulling back from it, striking only when he had to or when he had no other choice. To make up for it, on days he knew he wouldn’t turn up for anything other than breakfast, he’d sneak out every few hours like clockwork to check on his friends, because even if it was just paranoid thinking, there was a need within him to ensure their safety; especially when he was the one that might have put them at risk.

But the truth was, since it had happened and he’d started pulling away from everything, he’d seen no sign of Locus.

That bothered him immensely, because although there was no direct sign of a threat, alarm bells were constantly going off inside him, always seeming to be warning him of something that he couldn’t put his finger on. Frustration added to the mix of emotions, and as the days passed, he only grew more tired, the bags under his eyes deepening to an alarming shade almost matching the black eye he’d earned from Locus. 

Trying to maintain a state of perpetual alertness, too high strung to truly relax until he was positive he was safe — it was _overwhelming,_ and it wore at him beyond what even he was aware of. Even if he had known, there was nothing he could have done. Despite the fact that Wash hadn't caught a glance of him, hadn't even seen a shadow, something told him Locus was still there. Still around. _Waiting._ It was that same gut instinct that kept him distant, physically and socially, on the other side of the ever widening chasm even though he could see a rocky bridge down below. 

The only relief he had was Tucker. With the issues he still held with Grif, and his avoidance of the usual areas he and Simmons usually met, Wash’s relaxation options declined and his stress levels grew. He began to hold onto the moments with Tucker at the end and the beginning of the day with everything he had. At first, he thought it was hopeless, because the first few days after Felix’s disappearance and he’d faced down his overwhelming urge to kiss Tucker, a tension had been created between them, a rift that he’d blamed on himself and the way he’d been acting.

Tucker had acted strange around him, his own level of distant for reasons Wash wasn't aware of. It unnerved him, and left him with a lingering sense of guilt, because he wanted so badly to ask but knew he couldn't; because it all came back to him, and the distance he’d been forced to put between them — partially for Tucker’s safety, but moreso, he knew, for his own sake. For a little while, waking up in the morning had seemed more pointless, because Tucker’s averted eyes and forced cheery conversation wasn’t what he was living for.

But light came out of the darkness, and after a few days, it seemed to fix itself. Not completely, but just enough to give Wash hope that he hadn’t realised he’d needed. As if the world was tired of being tilted off its axis, Tucker came back to the cell one evening and asked him why he’d been so different.

“Is it just because of whatever happened the other night? The fight?” He’d asked, and his eyes had danced on Wash’s face, a different question flitting around behind them that Wash couldn’t figure out.

“Yes,” he’d answered truthfully, and whatever had been existing between them seemed to evaporate, in an air of relief and a wave of emotions on Tucker’s face that Wash hadn’t expected.

Between them, in those havens Wash got in the early morning and the late night, things almost seemed to return to almost normal. He didn’t give a second thought to the conversation, never heard the “ _Was it because of me?”_ that Tucker left unspoken, when he’d asked a different question and still gotten the answer he wanted.

When the cell doors shut, it was like things returned to a state of normalcy, a period of comfortable silence and conversation that still managed to be easy despite the unspoken awareness of everything changing around them. Neither of them realised they both seemed to be forging it from sheer force of will alone, a desire so strong to return to _before_ that they managed it without even trying, a testament to the bond between them and the coping mechanism they’d both adopted: each other. It prolonged the strange period of limbo that Wash seemed to be existing in, both separate and there at the same time, but both of them held to it with a stubbornness that reflected how badly they wanted to get through it, for their own reasons.

But it seemed to shatter as soon as the cell doors opened in the morning, opening Wash’s world back up to danger and threat, and disintegrating the sanctuary he’d forged with Tucker at his side. He knew it gave away the fact that there was a lot more happening than he was letting on — that he could relax with Tucker, sink down into the relief of safety and normalcy only to tense up the next morning, tight lipped and withdrawn, constantly on edge.

He _thought_ it gave away that there was a lot more happening. But he didn’t stop to consider that Tucker might have had a completely different perspective on the situation than he did, that Tucker had a different idea what had happened, and it had a lot less to do with whatever had happened with Wash that night, and more to do with himself. Wash didn’t stop to consider a lot of things, too focused on keeping safe and hiding the truth that he didn’t realise the degree to which he was separating himself from all of them.

Someone, however, did. And they weren't afraid to point it out.

“Sure, you might _be_ here, _occasionally_ ,” Donut coughed one morning, “but you’re not really involved.”

“I’m sorry,” Wash had offered, because he _was_ , but he knew being sorry to them meant offering something that he couldn’t — an explanation, justification, and the promise that it’d stop soon. Because _it_ seemed to actually be something, the term for how he’d suddenly changed, started disappearing and stopped turning up, and he’d been too busy thinking about how to change the subject to realise what Donut was really saying.

Part of it, he told Tucker, was that things — _things_ , carefully vague and ambiguous, with no hint as to what _things_ could be — seemed more difficult to deal with when he had a constant source of tension at one of his few safe spaces.

_Grif._

He’d been told a dozen times by both Tucker and Simmons that the grudge that Grif seemed to hold against him meant literally nothing in the big picture, but what they didn’t seem to realise was that the very fact that Grif had held a grudge against Washington meant that Washington held a grudge against Grif.

“I know you've heard of _forgive and forget_ , Wash,” Tucker had teased him once, to which Wash had replied with a simple, steel-faced, _“No.”_

It’d been dropped since then, but it meant that in that regard, things didn’t seem to be looking better anytime soon. Wash could admit it wasn’t something he couldn’t deal with, but when he was harbouring his own problems, ones he couldn’t even confide in with Tucker, the added alienation felt like more than he wanted to deal with.

However, although he didn’t turn up to dinner, he tried to turn up for breakfast, more mornings than most. Despite his constant paranoia, his fearfulness and tension at every waking moment that Locus would be near... his guilt and the fact that underneath it all he sort of _missed them_ was enough to make him turn up at least then, when he knew he wouldn’t almost any other time. It may or may not also have had something to do with Tucker’s guaranteed presence, and the fact that he knew that he would be there, because there was no way Tucker wouldn’t turn up when he walked with him there every day and there was no reason to put himself at more risk if Tucker wasn’t going to be there.

The fact that the likelihood of him turning up decreased drastically when he wasn’t sure if Tucker would be there was something that Simmons quickly picked up on.

“I had that dependency on Grif too, for a while,” he told him, one afternoon, when he cornered Wash outside of the dining hall before Wash could hurry away.

Wash wanted to deny that he knew what Simmons was talking about, but he knew there was no point. The only reason he’d been near the mess hall in the first place was to check if Tucker was there, and he knew his guilty retreat gave away more than he’d wanted to. He simply levelled the redhead with a look, but Simmons wasn’t having any of it.

“What?” Simmons had demanded. “I did. It was scary, you know, feeling like nobody liked me, and only being there literally because I was Grif’s roommate.”

That resonated with something inside Wash, and he’d hesitated. “Okay.”

“Okay. Well, just know that you’re there now because you’re a part of the group, not just because you’re with Tucker.”

It was unexpected, and Wash had appreciated that more than he’d let Simmons know — but then, he thought, Simmons had probably understood anyway. It had also made him begin to realise that he’d been really losing touch with the group as a whole. _Distant,_ as Donut had called it, along with a flurry of other emotionally grounded statements that he hadn’t really paid attention to on the few times he’d turned up.

“You know you can tell us if there’s something troubling you,” he’d also said, and Wash had considered the truth of that statement.

He’d come to the conclusion that Donut had genuinely meant what he’d said, but he may not have thought through every potential situation that could come of it. Not that he could be blamed for that, which Wash was well aware of — it was his overthinking that kept him from disclosing almost anything, despite the sudden and unexpected desire to actually _tell_ Donut when he’d offered. Something about the way Donut had looked up at him, his eyes wide and open, with a soft genuineness that had hit something deep inside Wash that he hadn’t known _existed_ , and left him biting back the words that had sprung to the back of his tongue.

_I’m friends with Felix and Tucker doesn’t know, and Felix is in trouble. I’m in trouble._

Instead he’d just looked away, and Donut had just smiled at him — a smile full of understanding, but also sadness, and Wash didn’t know what to say after that.

* * *

 “I think I know what it is,” Donut said, at breakfast one morning, when it became obvious Tucker and Wash weren’t going to turn up.

Simmons and Grif turned to look at him, their quiet bickering coming to an abrupt stop. When he had their attention, Donut lifted his own head and looked around the table dramatically, which consisted only of the other two boys.

“Know what _what_ is?” Grif demanded, when he said nothing else.

“Yeah, spit it out!” Simmons agreed.

“The big mystery! Why Wash has been so… _you know.”_

“No, we don’t know, and we don’t care,” Grif cut in, as soon as he realised where Donut was heading.

“No, we do,” Simmons said, speaking over him, and he waved a hand to shut him up. “What is it?”

Donut refrained from answering for several seconds, drawing out the suspense until Grif groaned at him to either _shut it_ or _hurry up_. He leant in, waving them closer, and waited until he was sure they were close enough that he wouldn’t be overheard.

“You know how Tucker’s worried that he took things too far with Wash?” he prompted, quietly. “And that’s why Wash is avoiding everything lately? Well, I don’t think that’s what it is.”

Two sets of eyes stared out at him impatiently, so he leaned closer.

“I think that Wash…” he began, excitedly, _“is realising his feelings for Tucker!”_

Grif yanked back from him. “Did you have to whisper that directly into my brain? I don’t give a shit if Wash fucking loves him, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“No, don’t you see?” Donut urged, flapping a hand at him. “He’s realising he does! And it means Tucker didn’t do anything wrong! In fact, it’s the opposite. It means Tucker’s _helping him._ ”

“Jesus Christ, I just said I don’t care. And secondly, I don’t think that’s remotely true, but before you argue back, let me repeat: _I_ _don’t_ _care_.”

“But it is,” Donut responded, ignoring half of what he’d said. “Isn’t it obvious? Just when I knew they were getting closer, and I had my suspicions about him starting to realise it, all of a sudden he becomes super secretive and withdrawn, and you can tell it has something to do with Tucker. Simmons, didn’t you say something about it the other day?”

Simmons _erred._ “I don’t know? I’m not sure what you’re referring to— and I don’t think it’s—”

“You _know,_ you said something along the lines of how you thought Wash was emotionally dependant on Tucker, and it would probably lead to some deep suited issues if it wasn’t properly addressed?”

“I—“ Simmons faltered. “That’s _exactly_ what I said, but I said that ages ago! In a _completely_ different context.”

“My point is, what better would cause this at this point in time than exactly what I’m saying? He started realising it’s more than that, Tucker thinks he’s done something to take it too far — which means if _he_ realises it, it’s definitely happened. So we need to talk to Wash, figure out what page he’s on, and stop this madness.”

“Great idea, Donut,” Grif said. “If only any of us apart from you cared. Or should I say, were creepily obsessed with a relationship you’ve got nothing to do with.” He paused. “I use _relationship_ in the totally platonic way, by the way. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late,” Donut sung, “I’m full of them. So here’s what I’m thinking: Wash is upset and confused because he’s realising his feelings for Tucker have gone beyond what he’s equipped to deal with. Think about his previous life—”

_“No."_

 “—he’s never had anything like this before! He’s probably never encountered the new feelings and sudden urges that he’s overcome with, and it must be overwhelming for him.”

“Donut, the _last_ thing I ever want to hear is a rundown of anyone’s emotional state, let alone _Washington’s._ For the love of god, shut up. Back me up, Simmons.”

Simmons barely glanced at him. “Hang on.”

Grif stared. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“So he’s overwhelmed, and he doesn’t know what to do. And what does Wash do when he doesn’t know what to do?”

“He runs away,” Simmons said, realising where he was going with it.

Donut nodded. “He runs away,” he confirmed. “He’s doing it more subtly, though, because he can’t exactly run away from Tucker every time he sees him.”

“So he withdraws,” Simmons nodded.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” Grif interrupted. “Who _cares_?”

Donut finally broke off to look at him. “This is _important,_ Grif. The happiness of your friends are at stake!”

“Well that’s where you’re wrong, because I don’t give a fuck about Wash.”

“It’s not just Wash. It’s Tucker, too. Think about how upset he already is at Wash’s actions. You _know_ how he feels about him.”

“Not _that_ upset, dude. Stop trying to make everything into one of Sarge’s soaps.”

But even as he said it, Grif knew he was wrong. While Tucker wasn’t as upset as Donut made him sound, he’d been more withdrawn himself, quieter and more lost in thought than he usually was. Half the time he talked, it was about Wash. He hadn’t said anything outright, and definitely nothing to Grif about _liking him_ , but while Grif wasn’t exactly the king of context, he wasn’t an absolute idiot, and he’d known about it for longer than he’d like to admit.

But more important, while Tucker wouldn’t ever talk to Grif about it, which is exactly how Grif liked to keep it, Tucker had apparently talked to _Donut_ about it. According to Donut, he’d said in as many words, over a long period of time, that he thought he’d scared Wash off. To Donut, this only meant one thing, and he’d apparently pressed hard enough to confirm it.

“Whatever,” he said, before Donut could respond. “What the fuck do you want us to do about it?”

“Oh, I don’t want _you_ to do anything. You’d just ruin everything. I want _Simmons,_ however, to talk to Wash! I’d do it myself, but he already said I talk about feelings too much, and I’ve noticed the friendship you two have built.”

“They haven’t built a friendship,” Grif denied. “They’re as close as you and I are. _Not very_. Right, Simmons?” He turned his gaze to Simmons, but Simmons avoided his gaze. “What? Are you serious?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t realise.” Donut leant his chin on his hands and gazing between them.

“I just— you always went off with Tucker, and he usually went to school, and it was good to have someone to talk to!” Simmons defended, his face flushing.

“So? That doesn’t mean you make _friends_ with the dude!”

Simmons was flustered. “What did you expect?”

“You know I don’t like him!”

“I don’t care, I do! He’s not bad. He’s actually pretty nice, once you get past… you know.”

“Everything?” Grif offered, doubt infused in his tone. “Once you get past _everything_ , because he’s _not_ nice, he’s a dick.”

“He did _one_ thing to you.”

“Yeah, turned my friend against me,” Grif muttered, quietly, but loud enough for Simmons to hear.

“He didn’t even—“ Simmons began, his voice raising in pitch, before Donut interrupted them both.

“Come on, reds! We’re getting off track here! You seem to be forgetting the real reason I called you both here.”

“You didn’t call us here, asshole. It’s breakfast.”

“As if you'd be anywhere else,” Simmons mumbled, and ignored the glare Grif shot at him.

“So, Simmons. Do you accept the mission I’ve offered you? Talking to Wash about everything?” Donut continued, speaking over whatever Grif had been about to say.

“Uh… I don’t think…”

“Nonsense, you’re perfect for the job. Charismatic, brave, willing to take on whatever challenge life throws at you—”

“Your only option,” Grif cut in. “Also none of those things you mentioned, even remotely.”

Simmons looked like he’d been about to deny it, but instead, he stuck his middle finger up at Grif and looked towards Donut. “Fine, I’ll do it. Only because I’m tired of hearing Grif complain about all the drama that’s going on lately. At least this might put an end to it.”

Donut looked worried. “Do you think this’ll put an end to the drama? Wait a minute, Simmons, hold on—”

Grif pushed back his tray with a loud clatter and got to his feet. “Shut it, Donut. Come on, Simmons.”

“What? Where are we going?” Simmons asked, even as he followed Grif’s lead and pushed his half eaten meal away from him.

“We might have time for a quickie before you have to run off to class. Do you think you can handle being five minutes late?”

“Um, actually, that sounds like a bit too long, can we cut that down to zero?”

“You tell me,” Grif responded, and then they were out of earshot.

Donut watched them make their way to the counter and dispose of their trays before they headed out a side door of the cafeteria. He put his head on one hand and watched after them thoughtfully, before he turned his attention back to the food in front of him. After a moment, he frowned at it, and decided to hunt down Sarge and Caboose.

* * *

That same morning, when he slipped back into the cell after darting out for a pre-breakfast smoke, Wash expected to find Tucker awake. He wasn’t. He was still sound asleep, mouth slightly parted to emit soft snores, and, Wash couldn’t help but notice, vulnerable. He felt uneasy, guilt creeping in at having left Tucker alone and asleep in a completely accessible cell. If Locus had come by, or anyone…

Hurriedly, he stepped forward to wake him. He noted, distantly, that it was also the first time he’d ever had to wake Tucker up without Tucker doing it of his own accord. Wash had long stopped needing Tucker to wake him in the mornings — the suddenness of harsh fluorescent lights penetrating darkness proved more than sufficient to jolt most of the kids into the waking world, including Wash.

Apparently, however, on this morning it didn’t include Tucker, because Wash was left with the task of pulling him from the sleep that he clearly needed, murmuring apologies under his breath — for waking him, and for leaving him, too. Wash was already well aware that by painting a target on himself, it made Tucker one, too. He put one hand on Tucker’s exposed shoulder, then yanked it back, the warmth seeming to sear into him as he settled for calling Tucker’s name.

“Ah, what the fuck?” Tucker mumbled, words slurring in his sleep-induced haze. Then he squinted up at him. “Wash? What the fuck? How’d— how’d you get up here?”

“I climbed up the ladder, Tucker.”

There was a beat, then Tucker jolted upright. “Yeah, right. Duh.” Almost as quickly, he relaxed back down, squinting at him through one barely open eye.

“It’s breakfast,” Wash said awkwardly, when Tucker said nothing else.

“Mmhmm.”

Wash hesitated. “Are you… going to come?”

“Bow chicka—“ Tucker started, before he trailed off into a yawn, “…bow wow. Yeah, gimme a minute.”

Wash did so, and hopped off the ladder to allow Tucker his time to get up. When he did, only half a minute later, he was yawning hard, his eyes watering. Immediately, Wash could tell that the bags under his eyes were heavier, more prominent, and he realised with a pang of regret that he hadn’t woken Tucker up at any point last night.

Probably, he realised, because Tucker hadn’t slept. He noticed that Tucker didn’t ask how he’d slept. Whether it was because he didn’t want to be asked the question in return, or because he already knew, Wash was unsure. Either way, Tucker side eyed him for a long moment, before opening his mouth.

“Fuck, I’m hungry,” he complained, and glanced at Wash to see if he’d agree.

Wash forced himself to nod, his stiff neck protesting the moment, and instead of responding, he focused on loosening up his tight joints. Tucker let him be, and busied himself with yawning and doing some stretching of his own. When he’d finished, and he glanced at Wash, he was met with the sight of Wash staring vacantly into the distance.

Tucker frowned. “How’s your face?” he asked, and Wash jerked his head back towards him. He’d asked that question every morning since, even though the bruise had nearly entirely faded, so Wash wasn’t sure why it took him by surprise.

“Fine,” he said, and wished he could offer something more when Tucker just sighed.

“Sore?”

“Better now.”

The corner of Tucker’s mouth twisted unhappily. “It was a fairly big fucking bruise, Wash,” he pointed out.

“Not as bad as what I was used to,” Wash responded, although the truth was that he hadn’t been hit that hard in a while.

He’d already considered the prospect that he was losing his edge, the concern that his reflexes would slow, his fighting ability would decrease, and he wouldn’t be able to fight as long and hard and well as he had when he’d joined. Unless he went around picking fights, it was something he could do nothing about, and he was left resentful and tense. He pushed that thought down when Tucker just nodded glumly, and the one-sidedness of the conversation became even more apparent.

He sighed, and waited to see if Tucker would look at him again. When he didn’t, Wash spoke anyway.

“I’m just tired,” he admitted. “I haven’t been sleeping well the past few nights. I’m sorry I seem so… distant.”

“Donut’s been talking to you,” Tucker realised, and some amusement slipped into his tone.

“How’d you guess?” Wash returned, and it was enough to make Tucker look back up at him.

Something in Wash’s stomach twisted at the hopeful look that Tucker gave him, the unwanted but undeniable knowledge that he’d been neglectful lately. Not just of Tucker, but of everyone, enough for even Simmons and Donut to comment on it. He knew he couldn’t keep it up forever — Locus hadn’t made any move on him, for whatever reason, Wash didn’t know. It was possible that he was waiting for Wash to let his guard down, but the immediate threat had passed, and truthfully, Wash hadn’t even seen a glimpse of him, and he wanted to be able to relax, even a little.

“Just a stab in the dark,” Tucker responded, eventually.

Wash felt the urge to laugh build in him, but he held it down. “Yeah, well. He was right. I’m aware of that.”

“Don’t ever let him hear you say that,” Tucker joked, and this time Wash actually did smile. It seemed to encourage Tucker, because he sat up on the desk, his feet swinging. “Nah, but for real. That dude is _all_ about emotions, so don’t take him too much to heart. You know how he is.”

“That’s true.”

“But,” Tucker continued, “he’s right though. I mean, obviously. You’ve just — ever since it happened, you’ve been different. Shut up, I know I sound like a girl, but I’m serious,” he said, as if Wash was going to say anything along those lines. “Like, at least tell us what it is. You said it was because of the fight, but you haven’t told me anything about it. I mean, I thought it was—”

He cut off, abruptly, shaking his head. Wash frowned at him, and waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, and looked back at Wash for an answer.

Wash tried to force the frown from his face, but it stayed. “Tucker,” he said, because Tucker had already tried to get him to tell him what was wrong on multiple occasions, and Wash always gave him the same answer — “ _I appreciate the concern, Tucker, but I really don’t want to talk about it.”_

Tucker had nearly dropped it, until he’d asked a question that Wash hadn’t been able to answer.

“ _At least tell me, is it over with? Like, is it gunna continue to be a problem?”_

And Wash’s silence had only made him more determined to find out exactly what was going on. If it wasn’t _him,_ then what? But Tucker wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t him, after all. At least not entirely.

“ _Wash_ ,” he mimicked, and crossed his arms across his chest, but Wash just stared at him until he unfolded his arms and threw his hands up in resignation. “Fine. Be like that.”

“I will.”

They lapsed into silence, until Tucker drummed his fingers on the table annoyingly enough for Wash to sigh exasperatedly at him.

“What are you doing today?” he said, instead of whatever he’d intended to, and they both looked at each other in varying degrees of surprise.

Eventually, Tucker lowered his raised eyebrows, and waited until the guards doing headchecks had passed before he responded.

“Probably skipping with Grif,” he admitted, and Wash’s swallow down an unexpected surge of disappointment. “He’s still not going to the gym, even though it’d be the best time since Felix is still fucked off to god knows where, so I’ll go with him wherever else he… Wash?”

At the mention of Felix’s name, Wash realised he’d visibly tensed, his expression tightening. Tucker was staring at him, suspicion creeping into his features, behind the confusion and hint of concern that had appeared the moment Wash had reacted. But then he frowned, and shook himself. “Sorry, I know you don’t like talking about that place.”

“It’s fine,” Wash hurried to assure, because while he was glad that Tucker hadn’t understood, he felt guilty.

“I mean, we could hang after?” Tucker offered. “We’d probably be done an hour or two before dinner. By dinner, at the latest, so we won’t be gone, y’know, all day.”

Wash considered that for a few moments. He had no plans for what he was going to do, no idea how to proceed with the situation at hand. He’d been disappearing, keeping his distance and staying alone for all the reasons he kept justifying to himself — keep them safe, keep himself safe — and for ones he didn’t want to admit — that he’d been fixated on Felix since his disappearance, on being around to see if he came back. It all revolved around if Felix came back, because _if_ he came back, Wash didn’t know how to get to Felix, if he even could, or when he’d be able to talk to him.

There was too much going on. He was handling it, but barely, reduced to the basic actions driven by instinctual force: keep hidden, keep safe, keep watchful, and keep wary. And when he looked at Tucker, he realised how badly he wanted to spend time with him. They’d barely talked last night, a fact that Wash was all too aware of, and he’d sorely missed the usual interactions that gave him the brief reprieve he needed.

So when he looked at Tucker, and felt a yearning for just spending time with him, it wasn’t a grand realisation. Just the subtle reminder of how much he enjoyed being able to relax with Tucker, _truly_ relax, like he couldn’t with anyone else. Even if his heart pounded the whole time just because he was close to him.

There’d been so much going on that he’d been able to push _that_ whole situation out of his mind. He hadn’t come close to trying to kiss him since the night of the incident, and he was careful, even when it was just he and Tucker, to keep that little bit of distance between them, just so he wouldn’t get any ideas.

He realised he was staring at Tucker, but he spoke before he realised that Tucker was staring back.

“Before dinner, then?” he offered. “We could find somewhere to, well...”

“Chill?" Tucker offered, and Wash didn't miss the hopeful tone to his voice. "Like, actually for a few hours? You're not just going to head off again, apparently untraceable?"

The hopeful tone had quickly faded, and a bitter one had taken its place, shining out at him through the accusations that Wash couldn't protect himself against.

"If you don't want to..." Wash evaded, and Tucker frowned.

"I'm not saying that," he said immediately. "Maybe you could take me to some of the places you've been lately? I thought  _I_ showed you all the hidden places around here, but it's clear you've been busy finding some of your own."

The accusational tone again. It hurt, Wash realised, but it hurt even more that he couldn't say a thing to defend himself against it.

"I've just..." he started, but then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, Tucker. I'm just... getting myself together."

He regretted his word choice as soon as the words had passed his lips, sure that he would begin questioning him on it. Instead, Tucker turned away, a harsh breath blowing out of him as he abruptly averted his gaze.

"Whatever," he muttered, and Wash was lost as to what he'd said.

He realised, a moment too late, that it must have been because he'd refused to tell him again. Tucker's frustration hadn't been kept a secret, but he didn't seem to want to pry as much as Wash had expected. He almost seemed to avoid it, if he could, for reasons Wash couldn't even begin to understand, and his reactions only seemed to confuse Wash further. He wanted to ask what it was that had Tucker reacting to him like he was, but he couldn't risk opening himself up to the questions he'd harboured when it had began, couldn't risk opening up a crack in his defenses that he'd been forced to erect against his will.

He wanted, more than anything, to not have to have raised them against Tucker. But the world was cruel, and he'd never had much luck, and now it seemed that he was inadvertently driving a wedge further and further between them. The only way he dealt with it, he knew, made things worse — because as soon as he could, he disappeared again, so he wouldn't have to face the impacts it left on everyone he left in his wake. 

Everyone, he thought, mildly, being Tucker. He couldn't stand to see the disappointment on Tucker's face, and so he didn't let himself dwell on it. Falling back into survival mode was somehow almost easier for him — except it was different, because now he had Tucker, and things would never be the same when he had Tucker to come back to every night, to make him seek the relief and temporary sanctuary from what Wash half-halfheartedly tried to convince himself was for the better.

He flicked his eyes up to Tucker, who was still looking away.

"I'd still be up for it," he offered, softly, and Tucker tried and failed not to glance at him.

"What?" he asked, somewhat coldly, before it melted a little. "Fine. Alright." He seemed to see the relief that must have been evident in Wash's eyes, because he hesitated, and licked his lips with a nervousness that was becoming all too familiar in how often it was directed at Wash lately. "I mean, I don't even have to go with Grif today," he said, hesitantly.

It took a second for Wash to figure out what he was offering. “No— Tucker, you don’t have to,” he said, but Tucker saw right through him, read into what he wanted despite that alarm bells were going off in his head.

“Pfft,” Tucker scoffed, a hint of normality returning, briefly at first but then stronger. “Fuck that right off. If someone needs me, who am I to say no?”

“ _Needs you_ ,” Wash repeated, infusing the words with doubt, and it had the desired reaction. Tucker laughed.

“Wash, please. Do you want the pleasure of my company or not?”

Against his own will, Wash couldn’t bite back the smile that tugged his lips up at the corners, and Tucker returned with his own smile again. After a moment of gazing at him, trying to memorise the look on Tucker's face as if he hadn't a thousand times already, a sense of optimism wormed its way through him, unexpected and sudden. His smile must have grown, because a genuine look of delight lit up Tucker's face, in a way it hadn't in a while.

"What?" Tucker asked, but he didn't wait for an answer, still smiling. "Come on. It'll be good. We haven’t had a day to ourselves to go wherever we please in ages."

The reminder made both their smiles falter, and Wash's disappeared completely — but only for a moment. He thought about what he had to look forward to and let it lift his spirits, and bring the curve back to the corners of his lips.

Tucker watched him smile, and seemed to shake off everything in an instant. The dark shadow lurking behind his eyes vanishing and his whole demeanour seeming a little brighter. Wash wondered if that was because of  _him_ , if it was possible that Tucker was looking forward to their day together as much as he was, but he cut that thought off before he let it get too far.

Except he could still feel it in his chest, warm and glowing. 

"Well..." he said, and gestured with his head towards the door. "To breakfast?"

"Hell yeah. Then, what do you say... we can go anywhere. A smoke first, I think? Then we can wander for a bit, find somewhere to chill for a while."

He didn't wait for Wash to respond, starting off towards the cell door.     He already seemed a little lighter, and Wash wished he could shake it off as easily, but he knew that while he was determined to spend this day with Tucker —  _needed_ to spend this day with Tucker — he'd have to stay constantly vigilant. It would be a lot harder than if he was just by himself, and the implications if Tucker saw anything happen that he shouldn't, if today was the day that something finally went down with Locus...

 _Nothing had happened so far,_ Wash reminded himself. Only the constant, exhausting, overwhelming feeling of being watched. The certainty that had, so far, resulted in nothingness. 

This was a chance, yes, but it was one he had to take. For both of them.

"Wash?" Tucker prompted, and frowned at him when he didn't follow.

"Hmm? I'm coming," Wash assured, and stepped quickly after him.

They started down the hall, and before Wash could help it, he was picturing the day ahead. The uninterrupted conversations, the moments between them, everything Wash craved but had stubbornly  _refused_ to let himself think about finally whispering their way into his mind and forcing off the shadows that had been cast over him as of late.

It felt like he'd deal with anything right now, just to get his stability back with Tucker.

When he glanced up, Tucker was nodding his way, pleased. "Finally," he said. "Dude, this has... I'm just looking forward to some chill time, y'know? Even if you're not the chillest by a long shot — like, a  _long_ shot, Wash — it'll still be good."

Wash smiled. It was like Tucker was echoing his thoughts.

"Anyway," Tucker continued, as they carried on down the walkway. "If you're worrying about Grif, don't even bother. I can tell Simmons to keep him distracted, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows in Wash’s direction, and a faint blush warmed Wash's cheeks.

“That’s not necessary,” he managed, and Tucker crowed at the tone of his voice.

“You’re such a wuss, Wash,” he laughed. “I swear I can’t say dick around you without you going bright red. Literally. Hey—“

He broke off, abruptly, and a sudden silence chilled the air. Wash had been too busy sneaking glances at him from the corner of his eye, focused on fighting down the smile that accompanied the warmth in his chest at the prospect of a day alone with Tucker, that it took him a second to register the change.

A second too long.

“Oh, my god.” Tucker’s voice was soft.

Although Tucker saw it first, the tone of his voice had Wash stopping before him, registering something was wrong and reacting even as Tucker pulled to a halt. A second later, he took an involuntary step back. Wash’s stomach dropped sickeningly, and he repressed the urge to mimic Tucker’s actions.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Tucker whispered, as Felix limped down the walkway towards them.

Wash felt his lips part, and his jaw worked, but no noise came out. Long seconds passed, agonisingly slowly, an eternity dragging by in eons and ages.

Felix approached, and then passed them by in silence. He didn’t lift his head from where his gaze was trained on the ground, didn’t even glance in Wash’s direction when he passed him, and neither of the boys in the walkway moved until he’d disappeared into his cell.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tucker muttered, and turned to look at Wash. "Fuck. Did you _see_ that? Am I imagining things?” Then, “He was _fucked up._ ”

Wash hadn’t looked away from where he’d last seen Felix, transfixed on it, as if he could lure Felix back into view again.

“Holy shit, dude. Who the hell could do that to him?”

There was something to Tucker’s voice, an unidentifiable note that resembled building excitement that Wash immediately resented. Before he could say anything he would regret, Tucker froze.

“Oh my god,” he said again, and everything in his voice was different, changed.

Finally, Wash was forced to look back at him. Tucker was staring up at him, his eyes wide, his own lips parted in the familiar way that usually had Wash flustered, but this time he felt nothing but apprehension as he watched the realisation dawn on Tucker’s face. The connections seemed too obvious, too clear to ignore, and he didn’t _blame him_ but everything in Wash wished Tucker wouldn’t say what he was about to say, wouldn’t ask what he was going to ask—

“You,” Tucker whispered, his eyes wide and fearful.

Wash knew what he was thinking, knew he was connecting Felix’s absence to Wash’s mysterious change, his absence, his damning questions, _everything_.

_Who the hell would do that to him?_

Wash could.

“No,” Wash wanted to say, but his voice wouldn’t work, the vision of Felix’s bruised and battered face dancing in front of his eyes.

“No,” he tried again, but it didn’t come out, feeling more like a lie than the truth, so instead of answering, he pulled away from Tucker and ran.

* * *

As loud as they were, the sound of his footsteps wouldn’t have drowned out any noise Tucker made, so he knew he didn’t call after him, knew he didn’t make any attempt to stop Wash from running. Flames of anger and regret ignited within him as he moved down the halls, painful and overwhelming, leaving him a flaming shell of burnt out emotion as he tried not to face his mistake.

His feet carried him forward on autopilot as he reverted into himself, and he didn't realise where he was until the double doors to the gym registered in front of him. He stopped immediately, his heart suddenly slamming away in his chest, his skin prickling and crawling. A second later, coldness crept through him, followed by the quiet sound of his feet on the ground as he hurried away. Fear fed into the anger, dissipating it somewhat, replacing it with uncertainty at himself and what he could do.

Felix’s battered face danced in front of his vision, taunting and cruel. He clenched his fists, backed further away, tried desperately to get his thoughts in order against the rush of panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He already knew he couldn’t confront Locus, and even if he did, it was too late now. It would do absolutely no good, and it would just be another thing to hide from Tucker, on the growing list that he was all too aware of — another lie, another deception, another secret to keep and drive a wedge between them.

And that was what it was doing, he knew. He just hadn’t realised the extent of it, been too caught up to realise until he was lost and overwhelmed and he had nowhere to turn. Suddenly, he wondered if this had been what it was like for Tucker, when he was hiding so many things from Wash. Hiding them because he’d felt like he’d had to, like he had no other choice, because more things would go wrong from telling him than it would if he hid it a little longer. It was a realisation that was unwelcome, and as Wash spun uncertainly on the spot, it wore at him. Like every other problem, he shoved it from his mind. He’d deal with it later. Just like he’d deal with it all later, if the world would stop crumbling down on him.

Needing to do something, he moved quickly in the opposite direction, retracing his steps until he was at the junction that would lead him to the bathrooms. There, he hesitated, because if he went any further he was at risk of running into Tucker, but the only other way to go was back towards the gym. But he needed to talk to him, had to face the reality and find out what was going on. Had to explain, had to think of something to tell him, to take back his actions before it could make it any worse.

He always ran. _Why did he always run?_

Apprehension built and built inside him until he felt physically sick, the awareness that he’d just dug himself into a hole he couldn’t easily get out of creeping through him and twisting his insides. The truth was that he’d been digging it ever since he’d started hiding things, but the truth was slippery and cold down his spine, and it didn’t help him crawl back out again.

It did, however, send a thought through his mind, one that felt so right and true that he clung onto it with all he had. He had to get back to Tucker.  _Go back now_. Even if he had nothing to say, he had to go back now. Even if he couldn’t explain, he’d be there, and it couldn’t get any worse than he’d made it by running. But Felix— what better time did he have to talk to Felix? He knew where he was, even though it wasn’t a safe space — there was no guarantee Locus wouldn’t be there, or Tucker, but it was a risk he would take. Although, he knew, it wasn’t a risk _Felix_ could take, if he even wanted anything to do with him.

Just like that, his confidence faltered, his surety at what he had to do dissipating, leaving him hopeless and lost and just as confused. He ran his hands through his hair, darted across the junction and down the long, tiled hallway into the bathroom. He had a cigarette in his mouth and the lighter to the tip before he knew it, and there he hesitated, his mind racing and his fingers shaking, before he lit it and bought himself some time.

He had to think of a plan. One that involved him being able to talk to Felix and Tucker. He didn’t know whether that was because he needed to make sure Felix was okay, or because he was scared of Tucker, but it didn’t matter. Both had bad things in store for him: guilt, sorrow, helplessness.

He couldn’t do anything to help Felix. When he faced Tucker, he’d have to lie to him. Things might have been different if he’d held his composure when he’d seen him, if Tucker hadn’t cornered him into it — the _if’s_ didn’t matter, he knew, but he couldn’t help but think of it anyway. Because it seemed better than facing the situation in front of him when it only seemed to get worse and worse. He didn’t know how he managed to fuck it up so badly, but it seemed like every decision he made was a mistake, a choice that only meant something in the future would be worse, would be harder on him, until he was backed into a corner with no way out.

With a deep, shuddering breath it, he realised that’s how he felt. Like he was caged again, with walls on each side and no way out, except for pain and hurt that would only get him thrown back in. But this time, the person he was fighting was Tucker, and every decision he made was another punch thrown.

Except Tucker wasn’t fighting back.

Just like that, his final decision was made, and for the first right thing he’d done in a long time, he dropped his burning cigarette to the ground and ran back to Tucker.


	26. i thought it ended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since it has been a few months of hiatus, i suggest maybe going back and reading the last chapter to set the scene again. this chapter is a rollercoaster of emotions, but i hope the wait has been worth it. 180k words is reasonable for a slow build to the first kiss, right?  
> god, there's still so much to come in this fic.
> 
> if anyone's still around, i'd love to hear from you.
> 
> also check out the latest com piece for this fic! here http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/post/154567569956/felix-and-locus-breaking-time-commission-by-the

He caught Tucker outside of Grif’s cell, where he’d known he’d be. If someone took Wash away from Tucker, Tucker went to Grif. Cause and effect. _Straightforward._ Wash could do this. He _knew_ Tucker — the problem was that Tucker didn’t know Wash as well as it seemed, and they were both starting to realise that.

When he found him, Tucker was leaning against the bars outside Grif’s cell, his arms crossed and his hand drumming impatient patterns on his skin as he waited. Tense. Clearly unhappy. Because of Wash.

Washington didn’t get a chance to hesitate, wasn’t spared a moment to think things through. It was a blessing in disguise, even if he didn’t know it, because if he’d stopped and let himself think he doubted he would have managed another step forward. As it went, the moment his footsteps faltered, Tucker looked up and caught his eye.

He froze, his hand pausing mid pattern before it dropped to his side in surprise. His eyes widened, emotions flitting across his face too quickly for Wash to decipher, and his mouth hung open as Washington gathered every last remnant of his courage and closed the distance between them.

Tucker’s painfully blatant shock at Wash’s return stung, but it was nothing compared to the maelstrom roaring in Wash’s mind, in his heart, and even that was deafened by the one thought that had driven him this far, when all he’d wanted to do was turn and run. He _needed_ Tucker. And that meant that he needed to explain everything to him, now — before it all came crumbling down, a ruin of his own unwitting design.

So he kept forward, and before he knew it he was in front of Tucker with no words on his tongue and his heart beating so hard in his chest that it hurt. Tucker watched him, waiting, and while Wash hoped that he’d say something, _anything_ , it quickly became apparent that it all came down to him.

It was fitting. In the end, he was the first to speak, and when he did it was Tucker’s name that fell from his lips.

Tucker’s response was seemingly automatic, no thought behind it.

“Wash.”

It was enough to give Wash pause. There was something — something _off_ , something _strange_ about the twisted tone to Tucker’s voice that Washington couldn’t identify, and again, he was thrown. He searched Tucker’s face for clues, but there was nothing, an empty and emotionless mask exceptionally crafted by a realisation of betrayal, a realisation that Wash was hiding something far bigger than he’d thought from him.

When, Wash wondered, staring into Tucker’s dark eyes, had he gotten quite so good at hiding his emotions? When was the last time that Wash had ever seen him really _try?_

This had all flitted through his mind in a matter of seconds, but it was enough for a silence to develop, to fall flat and stretch between them. Tucker’s eyes gave away nothing — a tight defense, impenetrable. Wash couldn’t see past it, and for a moment he didn’t want to, because it would only remind him of how bad the situation he was in actually was.

He’d been caught out, and it was his own goddamn fault. If he hadn’t of left, hadn’t decided that pulling away and _running_ was the best solution to seeing Felix’s battered face, then maybe he wouldn’t be here. Maybe he wouldn’t be searching desperately for words he didn’t have to explain something he didn’t entirely understand: why he’d ran when he’d seen Felix, and exactly why he couldn't explain it.

He wasn’t even one hundred percent sure why he’d come back, when running would have been easier, and part of him wanted to keep the distance he’d kept for the past few weeks, but he couldn’t. Not when Tucker had promised him a day together, a throwback to how it could be and how it should be, and everything inside Wash had _ached_ with how badly he wanted that again. The space between them that he'd been forced to keep seemed to manifest in a physical ache in his chest, and he'd so badly wanted to stop it, to give himself something good, just  _one short day with Tucker_ because he hadn't  _really_ seen Locus around—

And then he’d fucked it up. Felix had, by returning, but Wash could blame himself for that, too.

He shouldn’t have _ran_.

“Wash,” Tucker said, softly, and it wasn’t until Wash blinked himself back into reality that he realised Tucker was staring at him.

Really staring at him, into him, and Wash didn’t have to think twice to know that he’d let his defences fall, just momentarily, in the face of how rapidly things had changed between them. Except that it hadn’t been a rapid change at all. It had been set in motion the moment he’d met Felix, and things had been changing ever since. Slowly, but nonetheless, and it meant that the sudden shift over the past weeks hadn’t been the beginning of it.

He pulled his eyes away, because Tucker was peering at him far too closely. They’d both let their defences down, and surprisingly, Tucker was quicker to school himself than Wash was. This time, it faded to be replaced with a mask that was trying too hard to really be expressionless. Wash saw straight through it, but he wished he didn’t, because it hurt to know how hard Tucker was trying to hide from him.

The seconds ticked on, and fear started to flow through his body again, icy and sickening. Whatever words he’d might have had were failing him, his mind too fixated on Tucker’s face to conjure up the explanation that Tucker was waiting for, but nothing came to him, no words to make it right. Tucker was in front of him, concern slipping through the cracks as he strained to keep an emotionless mask, and Wash’s brain only short circuited and short circuited again.

He didn’t know how he looked, but he didn’t bother to try and hide anything, because when words failed him he instinctively knew that for now, this was all he had left. The ache that seemed to constantly be inside him throbbed painfully, and all of a sudden words tumbled out with it, an apology and a plea for Tucker to listen all in one.

“I shouldn’t have ran.”

Tucker drew back, surprise crossing his features for a split second before it was gone again, just as quickly. Wash felt his heart thump heavily in his chest, because whatever Tucker has expected him to say, that obviously wasn’t it, and he didn’t know whether that bode well for him or not. Yet, nothing else had shown, nothing damning, and when Tucker had looked at him, Wash had caught the first glimpse of land in his stormy ocean.

If he could _just_ —

It was then that Grif reminded them they weren’t alone. He stuck his head out of the cell, and reluctantly, slowly, Wash shifted his gaze to him. The tension between them reared its head, and Wash readied himself, unsure whether to be thankful or annoyed with the temporary distraction. It gave him time to think, but he couldn’t do anything with that, either.

Grif’s gaze sought out Wash’s and fixed him with a steely glare. “What do you want?” he asked, and his voice was low and unwelcoming.

Wash blinked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tucker fidget, but when he darted a glance at him, Grif cleared his throat, and dutifully Washington returned his attention to him.

“I’m here to talk to Tucker,” he admitted eventually, when it became clear that Grif was waiting for an answer.

“Hmm,” Grif said, and nodded thoughtfully, as if Wash had given him something to contemplate over. “No, that’s not happening. Tucker’s coming with me.”

Wash blinked again, but that was all the reaction he offered. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another movement, but instead of looking over, he carefully measured Tucker’s reaction without looking directly at him. It was clear that Grif was watching him, waiting, but Wash didn’t care. He stole another glance at Tucker: he was refusing to look Wash’s way, fixated far too carefully on the ground.

 _What had been said?_   _How much?_

He shifted, suddenly uncertain for a different reason. Depending on what Tucker had said to Grif, if anything, the outcome could have suddenly shifted to something that had previously been unforeseen. Something that made him very, very wary, but also something that reminded him that there was a lot at stake here.

He turned his attention back to Tucker, and he saw Grif stiffen.

“Tucker.”

Out of habit, Tucker’s head lifted and he met Wash’s gaze. Grif took one glance at him and narrowed his eyes, immediately closing the distance between Tucker and himself, before he nodded down the hall.

“Let’s go, Tucker” he said, and started walking, but quickly stopped when he didn’t hear the sound of Tucker following him.

“Grif….”

Grif stared at him. “Come on,” he insisted, locking his eyes onto Tucker’s meaningfully. It looked like it took all of his effort just to stop himself from reaching out and dragging Tucker after him, but Wash spoke before he could follow through with more persuasive manoeuvres.

“Tucker,” he said again, and both gazes returned to him.

In turn, Grif interrupted him, returning back to Tucker’s side with an annoyed expression twisting his features. “No, fuck off,” he said, not even giving Wash a chance. “Listen, I don’t know and I don’t care what’s going on, but I’m sure as shit not leaving you two alone for another domestic bitch out. I’m sick of this, and I’m sick of you causing shit around here, so don’t even bother.”

Wash paused, carefully considering his words, and trained his gaze on Grif.

“Fuck _off,_ Wash,” Grif repeated, for good measure, but Washington watched him attentively.

After a moment, he leaned back.

“Is that all?” he asked, but from the way Tucker tensed he knew that he’d understood what he was really asking, and from the frown on Grif’s face it was clear that he knew he’d missed something.

“Amongst other things,” he said vaguely, but Wash nodded to himself for a moment, before he abruptly focused his gaze on Tucker.

This time, his eyes were wide and imploring, the same unspoken plea in them shining across. He said nothing, but after a moment that stretched across time and felt like an eternity, Tucker pulled his gaze away, and flicked it guiltily towards Grif.

“No,” Grif started, but that was all that he got out.

“It’s fine,” Tucker said, quietly. “Really.”

“Then why do you look like an abused wife every time you mention him? Fuck _off_ , dude. You don’t need all this drama and bullshit.” Grif didn’t even look at Wash, but he tensed regardless. “You need to just kick back and chill like the old days, without any of _this_.”

Wash chewed on his words, skipped the abuse comment, and fought down the desire to point out that Tucker’s version of relaxing with Grif was something that even Grif had admitted wasn’t something he wanted for him.

And, beyond the initial response, Wash was filled with something more. Grif’s protectiveness had kicked up an instinctual reaction within Washington, one that was protective in and of itself but one that felt nothing but bone deep _territorial._ Because Wash wasn’t protecting Tucker’s safety, he was responding to Grif’s need to protect Tucker from _him._ Him — when _Grif_ was the one who fed him drugs and took him out to where Locus was, and surrounded him with bad people, bad places, and bad things. 

In the end, he swallowed down every reaction he had except for the physical ones, because he couldn’t stop the hairs on the back of his neck raising as much as he could bite back the snarl that threatened to pull his lips back across his teeth. And, in the end, he kept quiet, not only for Tucker’s sake, but because a niggling feeling inside him told him he was wrong.

He wasn’t safer for him. Not at all.

Tucker was watching him, and somehow, he must have known that Wash’s thoughts were spiralling downwards because he sighed, softly, and shook his head at Grif.

“It’s fine,” he said, and he sounded so tired and unlike his usual self.

Regret. He should have left, should have stayed far away, but how could he when he knew that Tucker was hurting, hurting because of _him?_

Grif didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t seem to care, because he kept arguing, jabbing a finger in Wash’s direction.

“No, dude,” he was saying. “Seriously, why put up with all this shit? You’re tired of it, I know you are, I know _I_ fucking am, and—”

“And what? You’re sick of me talking about it? I _know,_ dude.” Tucker frowned, tight lipped, and the crease above his brow deepened.

“No,” Grif shot back. “Actually, fuck you, that’s _not_ it.”

They were focused on each other so intently now that the small part of Wash that was always assessing the situation told him that it would be the perfect opportunity to slip away unnoticed. He didn’t, but he hated himself for even thinking it, the dangerous self-sabotaging part of himself refusing to stop rearing its ugly head.

“—never even fucking say anything, that’s the worst part,” Grif was saying. “Usually we bitch things out until we’re all good again, but you’re internalising this shit like it’s actually important. You need to _stop,_ ” he said again, and it sounded like he was half-pleading. “Just come with me, and fucking forget it all. It’s as easy as walking away.”

Something in his words made Tucker stiffen, tensing up as if Grif had reached across and grabbed him by the shoulders. Slowly, he turned, his eyes dark and searching as he sought out Wash’s gaze.

“No,” he said, softly, his eyes boring into Wash’s. “It’s not.”

Wash felt a shiver jolt through him. His sudden intake of breath was silent, but Tucker’s eyes didn’t leave his, and he knew he saw it. Once more, his mask fell away, everything within him open to the world, and Wash was sure Tucker could see into the depths of him, unhindered and unobstructed, open and pure.

He _ached,_ visibly — and part of Tucker’s face softened in response.

“Go, Grif,” he said, without even looking at him.

Genuine anger crossed Grif’s face, darkening it so quickly that Wash felt his stomach drop as the rest of him lifted up onto the tops of his feet. For a split second, he imagined a fight going down between them, imagined the satisfying crunch of his knuckles splitting the skin on Grif’s lips — but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, because Grif had turned away.

Wash was still watching him, so he knew the moment that Grif paused, recognised the telling signs that indicated he was turning back around. He’d already gauged the distance between them, had already decided it couldn’t be a repeat of the Locus situation, but when Grif turned back to face him he was so tense that he was nearly trembling.

It didn’t prepare him for what Grif said.

“This — _all of this_ — is on _you,_ ” he hissed, and then he was gone.

Uneasiness shuddered down Wash’s spine as Grif moved off in the opposite direction, tension drawing his shoulders together until he appeared hunched. Even when he was no longer in sight, Wash didn’t relax his position, his mind sidetracked by the unexpected, unwanted turn of events.

This wasn’t good — it was another friend gone, another enemy gained. Even if it had been a while since he would have considered Grif a _friend,_ it still stung, and it still seemed like it would never end.

He didn’t look away from where Grif had last been as Tucker moved a step closer towards him. Moments passed, Tucker waited patiently, and inevitably, Wash’s eyes found their way back to him. Tucker was watching him, and he finally looked as tired as he’d sounded.

When their eyes locked, Tucker seemed to sigh, letting go of a breath that Wash hadn’t even been aware that he’d been holding.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Wash said, but it sounded like he’d choked it out, and he realised _he_ was the one who needed to breathe.

“I know."

Wash swallowed. Tucker’s meaning hadn’t gone amiss. “I’m sorry.”

Tucker barely missed a beat. “Why?” 

“He’s your friend.”

Tucker huffed out a breath of air that wasn’t amused. “Yeah,” he agreed, flatly. “Sometimes friends do things that other friends don’t understand.”

Wash nodded, slowly. He recognised the message as what it was, but he felt empty at the prospect of trying to explain.

“Sometimes it’s for a good reason,” he responded, but Tucker shook his head, evidently unhappy with the response. It was the most emotion he’d shown so far, but that in itself wasn’t something Wash knew if it was a good thing or not.

“Like that was. What’s your excuse, Wash?”

His voice wrapped around Washington’s name, but it wasn’t warm. It was inflected with a sudden, surprising hardness that made the knot in Wash’s stomach double in size. It only amplified the feeling inside him that told him he was running out of Tucker’s patience and forgiveness for his secrecy, for his mistakes, and that made him infinitely more scared than he’d been at the prospect of a fight only moments ago.

Then again, fights were a familiar territory for him. Tucker was, _had been_ , and now wasn’t, because Grif was right. Everything was on him, and he didn’t know how to fix it. At his silence, Tucker’s expression grew blatantly cold, and he blew an annoyed breath out of his nose.

“Why’d you come back? I thought— I thought you were going to talk to me. Not more silence and— and this. Are you going to tell me anything, Wash? Or are you just going to run away again?”

“I’ll talk,” Wash interrupted, because he was nothing if not self-preserving, and he would have said anything to stop Tucker going down the path he was going down, where he’d point out all of Wash’s flaws and weak points and mistakes.

Tucker waited, but when nothing more came, he shook his head. Wash was surveying the situation as quickly as he could, but the information it left him with told him what he’d known from the start. He had to talk to Tucker — now or never.

“Run, then,” Tucker said, when the silence drew on, hurt and anger turning his voice hard.

Wash’s eyes snapped to him. “I’m not going to run, Tucker,” he said, and it was so forceful that Tucker’s words died out on his tongue.

Almost immediately, the surprise was replaced by the cold look again, so unfamiliar and unexpected that Wash’s stomach physically hurt seeing it directed at him. He wasn’t sure why, whether it was because of what he’d said or because of what he hadn’t said, but he knew it was because of him.

“Then— then _tell_ me. I don’t understand why it’s so hard for you to _talk to me_ , Wash. I don’t have the faintest clue what’s going on anymore. I thought we got past this. I mean, fuck, didn't you fucking  _learn?_ Because I sure as shit did, the hard way, and I would've thought you might have understood  _just a little bit_ what it feels like to be in this shitty position."

Although the hard look was still there, Tucker’s voice betrayed him, cracking and giving away the hurt that Wash knew was buried underneath.

“I don’t know where to start,” he admitted, quiet and desperate.

Tucker paused, then regained himself. “Well— why, I mean, why did you run?”

Even though he knew Tucker was trying his hardest to give him a chance, the question locked Wash’s throat up, because he didn’t know the answer.

“You don’t know why?” Tucked guessed, his eyes locking onto Wash’s and reading into him. “You run when you’re scared, or hiding something, or anything like that. You’re hiding _something_. You’ve been hiding something lately, and that’s why you’ve been running, but I didn’t think it was fucking _this._ ”

Wash faltered. “No.”

“I know you are.”

“No—”

“Don’t tell me you’re not, Wash! Why did you even—”

Wash broke in. “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m not saying— I just… I’m…”

Tucker looked so frustrated that Wash’s words died.

“Why’d you do that to him, Wash?” he asked, in a tone that let Wash know it was his last chance, and Wash couldn’t bear it even though it physically hurt to try and force the answer out—

“I didn’t.”

Tucker immediately swapped his gaze from eye to eye, searching for any sign that Wash was lying. Even though it hurt that he would doubt him, Wash knew he deserved it. He also knew that he’d taught Tucker that, and seeing it reflected it back at him would have made him proud if it weren’t for the circumstances.

“You didn’t,” Tucker repeated, waiting.

Wash swallowed. “No. I… I didn’t _do that_ to him, Tucker.”

It was enough. Tucker rocked back on his heels, reassessing, confusion crossing his features as he tried to make the pieces add up.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “You didn’t do that to him, but you made it seem like you did.”

Wash barely lifted a shoulder. He knew the answer to that, at least. “Running makes people look guilty,” he said, because he’d learned _that_ the hard way, time and time again.

“Well then _why_ did you run, Wash? It doesn’t make any goddamn— wait.”

Wash waited, but the question Tucker asked next wasn’t what he expected.

“If you didn’t do that to him,” Tucker asked him, slowly, “then who the hell did?”

He froze, but he didn’t get a chance to answer. Tucker had finally moved from the position he’d held for so long, longer than Wash had seen him stay for anything, and had shifted to the side, closer to the bars, as if he’d remembered that they were standing in the middle of a walkway. It was empty, and had been so far, but neither of them knew how long that would last.

“Is there some new kid I don’t know about?” he asked, and then he shifted his gaze back to Wash, and suddenly the question was directed at him.

Wash shook his head, apprehensive. “Not that I know of,” he edged, but Tucker immediately knew that he was hiding something.

“Who did it?” he asked, and just like that, Wash was trapped. “If it wasn’t you, who was it? And _why_ —” he broke off, faltering. “Why the hell did you run? Not just now,” he said, when Wash opened his mouth to answer, “but lately? _Everything_ lately, Wash, not just this. I need to know. You— You need to  _tell me._ ”

“I…”

“Tell me it wasn’t you, Wash. Promise me.”

“Tucker—”

“ _Tell me_ you didn’t do that to him!”

“I didn’t!” Wash burst out.

It was too much, because Tucker had moved quickly, and all of a sudden, he was in front of Wash, his hands poised as if to grab Wash by the shoulders, but they both froze at the same moment. Wash’s confusion must have registered, genuine and true, because Tucker pulled back, uncertainty and confusion of his own mingling before he shook his head and wiped it away, to be replaced only moments later with frustration.

“If you didn’t, who did? Who else _would?_  And why the fuck are you so secretive about it? I can’t—” he broke off, shaking his head again, the second time even harder. “Nobody would touch him. Nobody is that fucking _stupid_ , and you… If you did that to him, you’d be— you’d…”

Wash stared at him, but Tucker’s gaze drifted into the middle distance, and there was a very long period of silence until slowly, Tucker returned into reality.

“I don’t understand,” he said flatly. “Explain to me.”

“I don’t…”

“I’m not fucking around, Wash,” he said, lowly, and far more serious than Wash had heard him in a long time. “This isn’t just about you and me anymore, this is… listen to me, if you did that to Felix, you’re a dead man.” He swallowed, closed his eyes briefly, then raised them to meet Wash’s. “You swear to me you didn’t do it?”

“I didn’t, Tucker.”

Tucker didn’t need to ask again. The question was there, between them, so thick and demanding that Wash couldn’t ignore it. He paused for a beat, but Tucker’s eyes were so focused on him that the answer felt like it drew itself out of him, bending his will to Tucker’s commands, the unspoken question, the _who did it?_

“Locus,” he finally whispered, unable to avoid it anymore.

Tucker barely moved, but Wash could see the answer register and then re-register with him, as if he was positive he’d heard Wash wrong, before he shook his head.

“No,” he said simply. “No. Who did it?”

Wash leaned back, thrown. “Locus,” he said again, even though speaking the name aloud made him uneasy.

“No,” Tucker returned, but he looked at Wash strangely, and Wash got the feeling he thought he was lying to him. “Why do you think I was just so damn scared, Wash? Why do you think nobody touches Felix, even though he’s the most arrogant prick in this damn place?”

He waited for an answer that Wash didn’t have.

“Because if you lay a finger on him, Locus will flay you alive.” Wash started to shake his head, but Tucker spoke over him. “I’ve told you about it, you _know_ how they are. Locus would never do that to Felix.”

All of a sudden, it clicked into place. Wash was reminded of exactly how little Tucker knew about the situation, and how far off his misconceptions were. He thought back to the time he’d first met Locus, to what Tucker had told him afterwards that had stuck with him so much that it had nearly made him reject Felix’s help and friendship.

_“They’re practically inseparable. Where one goes the other follows…”_

Tucker was so sure, but he was wrong. In a way, he was right, where one went the other _did_ follow, but not how he thought, how he assumed… and if Wash said anything about it, he’d just incriminate himself all over again.

“Whoever told you that is wrong,” Tucker said emphatically, and Wash was pulled back into the present. “They’re wrong, and they’re idiots. Why would you believe that, Wash? And who would even… why would you think that?”

There it was again. Tucker kept picking up the threads that Wash had left everywhere, and he was beginning to unravel it all, bit by bit. Wash ran his hands through his hair, resisting the urge to tug it sharply, and looked at Tucker.

“Nobody told me. I know he did.” He paused, regained himself, and continued. “I was there. In a way.”

Tucker looked stunned. “You were there?” he managed, his jaw working furiously.

“Sort of.” Wash steeled himself. “I ran into them.”

He heard Tucker’s sharp intake of breath. “Them? You mean—”

“Locus,” Wash whispered, because his voice had failed him at a crucial moment.

“Wash,” Tucker said, but he got no further. Washington had started to talk, and he couldn’t take the opportunity Tucker’s interruption would give him to think it through.

“You were right, Tucker. I…”

He stopped, started, tried to remind himself to breathe. Thought about how much weighed on this, exactly what it _was_ and what it _meant_ , because what it was, was a rift in his relationship with Tucker and what it meant was everything to him. He steeled his resolve with two sharp breaths. He had to do this.

He looked up and met Tucker’s eyes. “I am in trouble. I didn’t do that to Felix, I didn’t even see it happen, but…” he drifted off, then started again stronger. “I ran into them, and something happened, and Locus was the one who did this,” he broke off to point at his healing eye, “to me.”

Tucker shook his head, almost imperceptibly at first, then stronger. “Locus did that to you. He went after you—”

“I got in his way.”

Wash’s words were soft, but Tucker’s face paled and he sounded like he was choking for a second. “You got in his _way,_ ” he repeated, faintly. “And he— he did that to you. He got you, Wash. Do you know what that means?”

Wash swallowed, but he couldn’t bring himself to respond, because he had a good idea. And the answer had left him cowering in bathroom blocks and peering around corners ever since. _Running_ , as Tucker had called it, and Tucker had been right all along.

“Oh, Jesus,” Tucker whispered, and ran his hands through his hair. “What _happened,_ Wash?”

And _that_ was the flaw in Wash’s plan. He didn’t know how much to give, only that he’d have to give something, but the future was blind to him and he couldn’t risk going too far and saying too much when he was barely managing to keep himself rooted to the spot.

When he didn’t answer, Tucker continued on, waiting for Wash to pick up his end.

“Why did he do that to you? And if you’re right about Felix, which…” He didn’t say anything, but he shook his head, and that spoke enough, “Then… _fuck!_ What’s going on, Wash? Why were you anywhere near them? And he only let you off with a fucking black eye? That’s _nothing_ , when he could… What’s going on?” he asked again, but there was nothing Wash could tell him that wasn’t the exact truth or outright lies.

Still, he searched for the words, the magic explanation, desperately looking for a way to explain without lying to him, because he knew he couldn’t go without answering questions, or he might never get the chance again.

 _Tell him the truth_ , a part of him screamed. _Get it out. Tell him._

But his voice failed the very second he tried, because he knew Tucker’s reaction might just end everything they had together. If he told him about Felix, their friendship, how close they were, how he’d been lying and avoiding Tucker just to spend time safely with him— that he’d been willing to risk being seen in public with him just so that Felix wouldn’t be unhappy with him…

If it hadn’t before, it hit him now, everything he'd tried so hard to push to the side, to ignore, to pretend wasn't as bad as it was. With Tucker staring expectantly out at him, and him with no answer to give. Too goddamn  _late._

“Wash—” Tucker started, and Wash didn’t know what he was going to say, but he knew he had to stop him.

“I want…” he started, and it seemed to pause Tucker long enough for him to get the next words out. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. I just— I just was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Tucker’s response was immediate and disbelieving. “Why the fuck can't you tell me? _How_ were you in the wrong place? I— I don't _get it_ , Wash.”

Wash gestured helplessly, and some of Tucker’s anger seemed to momentarily fade, before his face hardened again and he shook his head.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” Wash said immediately, almost pleaded, and when it burst out of him he knew that it was the truth.

For Tucker's safety, and for his own. Because feeling Tucker’s anger directed at him like he was, when he hadn’t even begun to unravel the tapestry of secrecy and betrayal and lies that had been woven between them, he knew he physically couldn’t bring anymore on himself. He’d been so sure that if he’d had time, he’d be able to slowly talk him around, slowly explain it to him. But now, he realised, he’d been wrong. He’d never have been able to do that, and he’d never even had a chance.

The realisation sunk into him deeply, and when he looked up at Tucker next, it was with a sadness that brought Tucker’s demanding words to a halt.

“Why can’t you tell me?” Tucker eventually asked again, and a lot of the anger in his voice had faded.

It was a fair question, but Wash still couldn’t answer it, either. At his silence, Tucker narrowed his eyes again, and Washington wanted to wilt in the face of his storm of emotions.

“You said you came to explain things to me. Well, I can’t really figure it out. All I know is it looks like you had a fight with Felix, and you’ve been hiding it from me. It does begin to explain why you’ve been so paranoid lately, and it does explain why you’ve been avoiding me, and it would at least _help_ me figure out why you changed so much, but...”

“Tucker—”

“No, Wash, seriously. It’s _sucked._ I thought I fucked up, that I—”

He broke off, and Wash blinked in shock at the expression on his face.

For a moment, a brief second of time that had passed too quickly but still given so much away, Tucker had been in pain. Wash had _seen_ it, had seen the hurt and the ache in his eyes so blatant and undeniable that Wash was left stunned.

Immediately, he began searching, trying to figure out exactly what that look could have possibly been because the only time Wash had ever expected that was if he’d told him about Felix.

His heart thumped, but his gaze didn’t waver from Tucker’s until Tucker pulled away, and Wash realised that he wasn’t the only one with something to hide. He’d begun to notice it earlier, Wash realised, abruptly — things Tucker had said and done, or _hadn’t_ done, that had confused him. He hadn’t been able to place it then, and he couldn’t now, but something instinctual had him pushing when all he wanted to do was pull away.

“That you what?” he asked, hesitantly, the pain in Tucker’s eyes refusing to remove itself from his brain.

_Had he done that?_

Tucker shook his head and shot a resentful smile at the ground.

“Nothing,” he said, so quietly that Wash almost thought he’d imagined it, and when he looked up next the pain had vanished. Then, louder, “Nothing, okay? Everything’s just fucked. Turns out you didn’t fight Felix, you fought Locus, and now… now what? Just how bad _is_ all of this? You can't tell me it's fine and done with when you've been acting how you have.”

His eyes danced on Wash’s cheekbone, along his eye, along the ridges of his eyebrow, as if to prove his point further. Wash nodded, repressing the urge to hide the fading bruise in an odd moment of self-consciousness. It was trivial in the face of everything, so he continued to meet Tucker’s eyes, watching carefully for what he might find there.

Too late, he realised why he’d wanted to cover it up, and it hadn’t just been self-consciousness. It was because the longer Tucker looked at it, the more the expression on his face shifted into something dark.

"You've been so distant lately because of this. When's it going to end, Wash?" It sounded like he already knew the answer. "It won't, will it? It's still... is it still happening? Is he after you?"

Wash closed his eyes briefly. He wanted to say no, immediately acting to deny it and protect both him and Tucker from the truth, but the truth was undeniable and had settled in his ribcage like a serrated knife, constantly tearing and irritating and refusing to let the wound heal.

He knew the fact that Tucker had known to ask was more than enough.

“I think so." His voice was empty. “Yes.”

Tucker stilled imperceptibly, before he reached out to steady himself on the bars to Grif’s cell. Wash watched him take a deep breath in, then blow it out silently.

“Has he done anything?” he asked, quietly.

“No. I— I haven’t seen him. I haven’t actually seen him, Tucker, but… something tells me he’s still there. Maybe I'm paranoid, but Tucker, I can't risk that.”

His words sounded strangely final, and Tucker shivered. Without thinking, they both stepped closer to one another, and Wash surveyed the small space they had carefully.

"So that's why you've been gone. I knew you’d been paranoid, but I thought it was just because you didn’t like being by yourself. But I saw it… you were fucking afraid of everything again, Wash, and I was too wrapped up to realise just how fucking bad—”

“Tucker…” Wash interrupted, because he didn’t want to hear this, didn’t want to know about how he looked to the outside world.

“No, Wash, you have been, but all this time I thought… and it's been this.”

It didn’t sound like he was asking, but it didn’t sound like a statement either, so hesitantly, Wash nodded.

“Because of this,” Tucker repeated.

Uncertain, Wash nodded once more. Then, after a moment it clicked, and his eyes flashed up. “What else?”

Instinctively, Wash knew that it connected to whatever Tucker had been hinting at before, that he’d avoided telling him, and he sought out his gaze again as Tucker avoided it. Wash felt uneasy. Whatever he was trying to get at was big enough to almost turn the tables on the situation — Tucker was avoiding _him_ now, at such a crucial time when so much was still unanswered, and the more that Wash thought about that the more uncertain he felt. He wasn’t sure whether to push, because for all intents and purposes he shouldn’t be asking anything of Tucker, but how could he not?

Something was hurting Tucker, something wrapped up in the middle of this mess, and if it wasn’t Felix then Wash didn’t have any idea what it could be.

“Tucker?” he repeated, because they’d both been silent for too long, but Tucker didn’t fall for the bait.

Instead, he blew out a long, unsteady breath, and frustration swelled up in Wash at how badly he wished he could know what Tucker was thinking. He longed for the days when he could read Tucker like a book, but at some point recently Tucker had started figuring that out, and while he wasn’t impossible to read it was a lot harder when he was trying.

 _Had Wash done that to him, too?_ Made him cynical and doubtful, covering up his emotions when they needed to be known?

Without thinking, he moved a step closer, but Tucker didn’t even raise his eyes to acknowledge it. He struggled to find the words while swallowing down the uneasiness that had risen in him once again.

“I didn’t want this,” he said, quietly. “It's just... I don't know what else to do. I kept telling myself it'd only be until it blew over, but I can't _shake the feeling—_ ”

His words were filled with frustration, and Tucker blew a long breath out, obviously unhappy, but there was something else there that Wash tried to pick up on. He almost spoke again, but stopped himself just in time. Tucker wasn’t focused on him, instead staring into some middle distance, lost in thought, and concern welled in Wash as he thought what he might be thinking about. He swapped his gaze between Tucker’s unfocused pupils, trying to read him, to figure out what Tucker was hiding from him —

Then, without meaning to, Tucker gave it to him.

“So it really wasn’t me,” he murmured, so softly that Wash wasn’t sure he’d intended to speak at all.

Wash pulled back, trying to piece it together, trying to make sense of what thought process Tucker could have been following to _ever_ reach that assumption, when it was the exact opposite that was true. When it was Tucker keeping him afloat amongst the tides trying to drag him down — how could he ever have thought it was him?

Acting on impulse, his chest hurting at the openness on Tucker’s expression that showed a conflicting mix of relief and pain, Wash took a step forward. And, in a move that wrenched Wash’s heart as hard as any blow he’d been dealt, Tucker took a step back.

Almost as if he’d just realised what he’d done, Tucker’s eyes flew to Wash’s. The jolt of pain inside him must have shown on his face, because Tucker paled considerably.

“Wash—”

“Tucker…”

Tucker tore his gaze away, like he couldn’t bear to meet Wash’s, and Wash was buried under the realisation that he was missing something very important.

“Tucker,” he said again, and this time his voice was harder.

“No, Wash. Look, we need to focus on… on this.”

But Tucker still wasn’t meeting his eyes, and even as he spoke he pulled further away from Wash. Not much, barely a perceptible amount, but Wash saw it. His mind raced back through the conversation, and this time, it started to make sense. Everything started to fly together, tying the connections and shaping it all into something that he understood, despite how hard it was for him to even _think_ about it, and he finally realised something glaringly obvious that he’d been missing.

“Why would it have been you, Tucker?” he asked, softly — and there it was.

The hurt and the pain that he’d faced earlier, and then the _aversion_ , the refusal to meet his gaze that acted as the calling card that something was going on beyond what he’d expected. He’d realised it earlier, but in the midst of things, it had been overlooked, and all he’d known was just how big it was if it was affecting Tucker even now.

Except, he thought, another realisation settling over him, this one cold — it was affecting Tucker even now not in _spite_ of the circumstances, but _because_ of them. He’d done this.

“Tucker,” he tried again, but this time when Tucker pulled away, Wash countered it swiftly, staying far enough that he wasn’t in Tucker’s space, but close enough that it was like Tucker hadn’t moved at all.

“Wash...” Tucker started, and he darted his eyes up to meet Wash’s, anger and frustration building so quickly that Wash tensed himself, but the second he met Wash’s gaze, Tucker’s words died away.

Silence fell around them, and they stood there, staring at each other, until Tucker seemed to tremble. It broke through the haze immediately, and Wash stepped forward again. The distance between them seemed too much, despite how little it was compared to how it had been lately.

It was too hard, with Tucker right in front of him, hurting with something that Wash had inadvertently done to him, not to want to be closer. Not to touch him, but he didn’t realise that thought until he’d already acted on it — his hand found its way to circle around Tucker’s forearm, radiating comfort and steadiness.

“Why would you think it was you, Tucker?” he asked once more, because he _had to know_ , and this time there wasn’t any room for avoiding it, and it was Tucker who seemed to wilt in the face of everything.

Tucker hesitated, glancing down at the hand circling his wrist. For a second, Wash thought he was going to pull away, and it looked like he would — until, after a long moment, he spoke.

“I thought I fucked it all up,” he finally said, still avoiding his eyes. His voice was tight, and filled with more emotions than Wash could count. “That I did something wrong, and fucked us up. I thought that’s why you’d been disappearing, why you’d been so distant, but then you seemed so normal sometimes and I couldn’t _understand it_ —”

“How?” Wash asked, distantly, Tucker’s words ringing in his ears.

There was another hesitation, as if Tucker was deciding whether he should even tell him. His hesitation made sense, for a number of reasons. It didn’t go amiss on Washington that he’d still avoided so much of the truth and left so many questions unanswered, and yet there he was turning it around onto Tucker.

But this… Wash didn’t understand it, didn’t know if he ever _would,_ but he was starting to see how it tied into everything that had happened so far.

“If you don’t know—” Tucker started again, but Wash was quick to cut him off.

“If I don’t know, how am I meant to unless you tell me?”

Distantly, he realised he could feel Tucker’s pulse under his fingers, and Tucker’s blood was pumping as hard as his own.

“You’re meant to be able to figure shit out,” Tucker said, miserably, and Wash had an absurd urge to laugh.

 _Was he?_ He couldn’t figure out anything lately. Instead of saying that, his hand tightened subconsciously around Tucker’s and he ducked his head to force him to meet his gaze.

“But if I can’t, why won’t you tell me?” 

Abruptly, Tucker pulled his hand out of Wash’s grasp, and the air against his bare skin seemed abnormally cold in the absence of Tucker’s warmth. There was no more racing pulse under his fingers, no galloping heartbeat to match his own. Nothing now to ground him and let him know that he wasn’t as alone in this as he thought he was, except for one thing.

They were both hiding something. Maybe Wash was hiding more, and maybe it was worse, but he held onto that with everything he had because he was starting to get the faintest inkling that maybe, just maybe, some of the secrets they shared were the same.

“Tucker,” he managed, and there was more emotion in his voice than he’d anticipated. He paused, swallowed again, but it did nothing to get rid of the lump in his throat, so he gave up and leaned in, so close that he saw goose bumps raise as his breath hit Tucker’s neck. “Tell me,” he urged softly, and he saw Tucker shiver faintly. “Please.”

Tucker’s voice was desperate. “Tell you _what?”_

“Tell me what could you _ever_ do to fuck us up.”

His reply was immediate, and so was Tucker’s reaction — he watched as Tucker’s pupils dilated, watched him begin to withdraw, then stop. Wash’s heart picked up even faster in his chest, his thoughts flying across his mind too quickly to register, and he’d made the decision to take Tucker’s wrist again before he’d realised it. He moved his other hand slowly, giving Tucker all the time he needed to stop him, but he didn’t. His dark eyes seemed to burn into the skin of Wash’s wrist. After a long moment of silence, deafened by the sound of his blood thundering in his ears, Wash slid his hand down into Tucker’s and gently turned them so they were facing palm up, and he could slide his fingers into Tucker’s.

He heard Tucker’s intake of breath, and the world seemed to come crashing to a halt as he waited, stuck in a timeless yet eternal moment of anticipation, until he felt Tucker’s fingers shakily press against his. He didn’t stop to consider that he’d acted on a primal urge deep within him, a need — because, undoubtedly, it was a _need_.

He _needed_ this, just like how he’d known all along that he needed Tucker. And from how Tucker let him, despite everything, it let him know that Tucker needed it too.

He let go of Tucker’s wrist to reach up and pull Tucker flush against him.

“If anyone fucked it up,” he whispered, his voice rough and heavy, “it’s me. And I’m sorrier for that beyond anything you can imagine.”

He was. Right now, Felix was a million miles away, their friendship unimportant, Locus a distant threat. All he could focus on was Tucker, all he ever wanted _to_ focus on was Tucker, the feeling of Tucker pressed against him and how Wash was sure in that moment that he would do anything to keep that.

The decision was made the moment he knew Tucker was hurting, because of him, and it was his fault that he wasn’t around to help him.

He realised the position they were in was sort of awkward, with their hands trapped between them, but in the first moment Wash didn’t care because Tucker wasn’t responding, wasn’t moving back, and then he didn’t care because Tucker was reaching up with his free arm to wrap it tightly around Wash’s chest, a strangled noise escaping him.

Everything seemed to flow between them, _questions_ and _answers_ and _emotions_ and _trust_ and _fear_ all at once as Wash shifted closer, pressed harder against Tucker, holding him there and holding him steady.

Mutually, they let it fade, let everything go because they had to, because they had no other choice. Things had expanded far beyond anything either of them had been prepared for, and it seemed too much — would have been, if they didn’t push through and grab onto the one thing that helped keep it all together.

Each other.

So they stood, Tucker’s face buried in Wash’s chest, breathing. Wash had no way to know that Tucker was just as overwhelmed and stretched to the limit as he was, that the sheer relief Tucker was feeling was half the reason, because he’d _missed_ Wash, had missed him so much— and there was no other way to say it. That Wash’s disappearance, his change, his different behaviour designed to put more space between them for reasons Tucker didn’t understand and secrets he didn’t know about, had all left it boiling down to what felt like the last of Tucker’s emotional reserves.

How he’d blamed himself, because why _wouldn’t_ it have been him, what else could have made sense? He’d known whatever incident regarding Wash’s sudden black eye had been an issue, but he’d never expected _this_ , hadn’t even really wondered if the situation could be bigger than he’d thought. Even when Wash had started vanishing, started slipping away despite Tucker’s determination to stop him, it hadn’t really been considered because Tucker was harbouring his own secrets, and he’d feared that Wash had figured out the biggest one of them all.

And, if he had, it made sense that Wash was distant, had pulled away. Tucker hadn’t questioned it for a moment. So this, all of this, _Locus_ and _Felix,_ singlehandedly two of Tucker’s biggest fears, going after one of the people he cared the most about — it was too much. The revelation was both brutal and relieving, promising and damning, and Tucker didn’t know what to do.

Wash didn't know any of that. All _he_ knew was that when he looked down at Tucker, he looked so helpless, so _lost,_ that protectiveness surged through Wash and for the third time that day, he didn’t even try to conceal his emotions. He let them flit across his face, and watched Tucker’s own reactions to them, saying so much more than they could with words.

Slowly, feeling more vulnerable than he had even in the past weeks — because survival was just that, surviving, but Tucker was _living_ — he reached up and took Tucker’s jaw in his hand, tilting his face up to him. He didn’t tremble, despite the sudden tension in his body, because his entire focus was centred on the feeling of Tucker’s jaw under his fingers, and the way Tucker didn’t try to pull away.

The way that Tucker shook underneath him, his dark pupils widening even more than Wash thought possible. Something broke within him, and finally, he wasn’t afraid of speaking the truth.

_“There’s nothing you could do, Tucker.”_

There was a moment when it all came together, and he leaned down and kissed him.


	27. when i knew love's perfect ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> make sure to check out the links at the end of the fic to see the new works that have been posted for it!! incredibly grateful eternally for everyone who contributes -- forever in awe, and i appreciate it beyond what i can say. same goes for everyone who left a comment on last chapter -- you had me nearly in tears, the support was overwhelming! i hope this is token enough. 
> 
> happy new year!!! peace and prosperity to you all <3
> 
> find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

In retrospect, Wash could piece together the sequence of events that led up to it.

He could, upon analysis, identify each element and its roots, its impacts, what it meant, and how it led into what happened next. It made sense, and so did the bigger picture, and all the pieces that fell into place to form the world around him fit perfectly. But as he stood in it, in the seconds between the moment the thought first flashed through his head to the instant his lips made contact with Tucker’s and the world lit up in a brilliant dizzying light, it was all a jumbled mess.

Thoughts flew through his mind, flashes and glimpses and words and ideas whirling through his brain so fast he couldn’t comprehend them. He was reduced to the automatic movements of his body that had saved him every time he’d shut down in the past, and this time, it drove him forward, one hand pulling Tucker’s jaw gently up to angle it right, the other squeezing Tucker’s hand so hard it must have hurt.

Moments, playing through his head, memories and dreams, wants and desires—

 _How badly he wanted Tucker around him, near him, how just being with him was a relief that faded to an ache when he was gone_ —

 _Wanting him in his bed, how much he dreamt of him, not just kissing him but of him, Tucker haunting his every waking moment and his every sleeping one, too_ —

 _How until recently he’d held Tucker’s hand as he fell back asleep, how he missed it each night since he’d came so close to kissing him, because he’d wanted this all along_ —

— falling, falling —

 _How much he’d thought about it, in between trying to push it back down again because it always meant trouble, but for once, just this once, maybe he should have let himself_ —

 _How hard he’d tried not to, how impossibly hard he’d tried to deny it to himself until he couldn’t anymore, until even he had to admit that he cared more than he should and in a way different to anybody_ —

 _And how he tried to convince himself it was just because of Tucker_ —

 _But not how he thought. In the end, it was just because of Tucker, and it always had been_ —

— slipping into place. It all came together.

And then he was kissing Tucker, and Wash didn’t believe in god, but he believed in this.

His body short circuited, his brain shut down, and when everything restarted again with the soft movements of Tucker’s lips, it was an entirely new sensation of being alive.

All the nerves in his body were on fire, every fibre of his being _burning_ with an electric pulse that shot through him time and time again. His heartbeat was so rapid and forceful that it would have hurt if any part of him could have focused on anything but how Tucker was kissing him back. He couldn’t, oblivious to the way his entire world was shrinking until it encompassed only Tucker and the places where his skin met with Wash’s.

He didn’t realise he was shaking until Tucker’s hand stopped pulling him closer, and started steadying him. That was the first tangible thought that he had, and it was followed quickly by the knowledge that he was being overwhelmed. It was so raw and new to him that part of him wanted to pull away, but the irrational part of himself held on a little longer, keeping that little piece of time suspended as long as he could.

As long as he could, but not long enough. Sooner than he wanted they were pulling apart slowly, until they were far enough that they could look each other in the eyes.

“Fuck,” Tucker said, breathlessly, and Wash laughed.

Behind it, his relief was like a crashing wave, soothing everything it touched like a calming balm against an aggravated wound— because even if that never happened again, they still had _this._

The moment faded, but the undercurrent stayed with them, and slowly the atmosphere relaxed. Tucker went to pull away, and without thinking Wash’s grip tightened, but as soon as he became aware of his response he quickly released him. Hesitantly, Tucker caught one of his hands before it could drop completely. He paused, looking like he didn’t know what to do with it, before he lowered his arm until they were hanging comfortably, with their hands wrapped around each other’s.

“I don’t know what to do next,” Tucker admitted, finally. He looked up at Wash, unsure, and Wash could only conjure a nod.

Several seconds passed as Wash’s mind cleared, and when he could finally think, could finally stop imagining how only moments ago Tucker had been pressed against him, their lips touching, the world glowing a bright dazzling white—

Tucker’s voice was hesitant and that caught Wash’s attention more than anything else. “Wash?”

He blinked, then nodded. “We should probably move out of the walkway now,” he said, distantly, because the practical part of his brain was kicking in again and that was all he could manage.

“Right,” Tucker said, and let him go all at once. “Right.”

Wash shot him an alarmed glance, but Tucker wasn’t looking at him, busy closing the short distance into the relative safety of Grif’s cell. There, he kept walking, until he’d planted himself on the standard desk they offered in a move that was all too familiar.

“I wouldn’t trust the bed. The bottom bunk is Grif’s.”

That was all the explanation Wash needed, and with a wary glance at the dirty looking mattress, he leaned against the wall opposite Tucker. Tucker looked him up and down, raising an eyebrow, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he shifted himself into a more comfortable position on the desk, and waited.

“So…”

“So,” Wash repeated, and that lasted all of several seconds before Tucker groaned and launched himself off the desk.

“Neither of us want to do this,” he stated, and closed the distance between them until they were barely two feet away from each other. “We should sort this out. Now, not later. Not when it’s too late.” He stopped, laughed. “I never thought… never mind.”

“Never thought what?” 

“So many things! Fuck.” Tucker shook his head. “Where do I start? None of this is… I couldn’t have seen any of this coming. But I _do_ know we have to figure out where we stand before anything goes wrong.”

Wash nodded, because it made sense, but before he could speak Tucker was evaluating him with a heavy look and he paused.

“I don’t think either of us want to be the first to admit anything, though. I sure don’t. It’s dramatic and it’s bullshit but I’m more afraid of what could happen if it goes wrong.”

Wash didn’t need to ask what he meant by what could go wrong, because there were so many possibilities that it could be infinite, and it made his throat tighten just thinking about it. He reached up, holding onto Tucker as if Tucker wanted to go, and as if Wash would stop him with just his shaking grip. They held each other, just cherishing the moments that passed where they simply could.

“It’s like an electricity,” Tucker murmured.

And Wash knew exactly what he was talking about, understood the charged air between them as exactly how Tucker had described. After a moment of hesitation, still unable to stop the nerves that shot through him as he did, he lifted his hands. He forced himself to focus, his mind to narrow down to centre on everything he could read about the situation that told him this wouldn’t backfire on him, as he reached out and held his hand an inch from Tucker’s face.

“Like electricity,” he agreed, and let his fingers brush across Tucker’s cheekbone.

He felt him shudder under his touch, and for the briefest second, Tucker closed his eyes. Immediately, Wash pulled away. He’d been too focused on the right now that he’d forgotten about everything. About how big it was. It felt too _easy,_ too _natural,_ to fall into what he wanted to do with Tucker, especially now that it seemed so tantalisingly close and doable.

Doable. Doable, kissing Tucker was _doable_ —

He had to focus. Not everything was doable, and a mistake could be easy to make and hard to recover from. Tucker was still a mystery in and of himself, something that Wash knew he had to be careful in approaching, and that wasn’t even considering all the other issues that existed around it — his hesitance, his own difficulties, their lack of communication. How they could never seem to predict the important things when it mattered, and left them both constantly grasping at straws.

He realised that Tucker’s eyes had opened and were staring into his, unreadable again. Wash was already beginning to hate that. He took a page from Tucker’s old book and tried to relax his expression, to show what he was thinking, and let himself speak without thinking too much into it.

“It almost feels too easy. With you… everything, it’s just…”

“It’s not just you.” The response was instantaneous, and Wash knew that like him, he’d understood immediately what he had been trying to say. Tucker chewed at his lip. “So it’s both of us,” he hinted, and Wash cocked his head to the side questioningly. “That it feels… easy for.”

Wash had to render up his courage to respond, because even when everything was telling him that Tucker was right, they needed this, they needed to _talk_ — it felt impossibly difficult to take that step, when it crumbled down all his defences and opened him up to the world.

Not to the world, he realised. To _Tucker._

And Tucker had kissed him back.

“Yes,” he managed, trying to fight away images of how breathless Tucker had been, how in his eyes a light had shone that Wash had been too wrapped up to see, and promised himself he’d think about it later. "God, yes."

A thrill ran through him as to exactly what later could be. With Tucker right in front of him, adamant to stay, to talk, to communicate when it was not a strong point for either of them by far — it told him that for once, it might be something good.

 _Tucker had kissed him back_ , he thought again, and revelled in that thought for the briefest second before he snapped his eyes up to Tucker.

“It has for… for a long time.”

Tucker nodded, soaking up the words, and Wash could see how hard it was for him behind his attempt at casualness.

“Since when?” he asked, but Wash shook his head. “You don’t have to—” 

“I don’t know the answer to that." He caught Tucker’s gaze intently. “I don’t think I could pinpoint a time. You’ve always been so easy for me to be around. The easiest, from the very start.”

“I was the very start, wasn’t I?”

His words were soft. Wash weighed them — feather light, a caress of quiet truth.

“Yes. You were. But since you, there’s never been anyone who it’s been the same with."

“You get along with Simmons,” Tucker pointed out.

“Simmons isn’t you."

Tucker snorted. “I’d hope not.” A moment later he blew out a deep breath. “It’s confusing,” he admitted, glancing up at Wash before looking down at their feet. “It _is_ easy, but then it’s not. Sometimes it’s so overwhelming it’s like I can barely breathe, but I’ve just gotta breathe anyway and try not to think about it. Most of the time it’s just… good. I don’t have to worry, or think about shit. It’s just you and me, just doing whatever, and it’s easy. Then I start thinking about shit, like should I do this or did I say too much, and you see fucking _everything…_ I don’t know. Just like, it’s so much better when it’s just you and me, guys being dudes.”

Wash’s breath caught in his throat, and in a Herculean effort he caught his disappointment before it showed on his face. “Would you rather it—”

“No!” Tucker cut in, almost jumping with the force of it. He looked around, then moved closer to Wash, leaning against the wall beside him but looking out to the front of the cell as he regained himself. “No, no. That was dumb, sorry. I meant… fuck, I meant it’s easy even when it’s hard. Do you know what I mean?”

Wash’s silence and curious stare told him no, he didn't. Tucker sighed, and Wash could see the tops of his prominent cheekbones darkening further.

“I just, I overthink it sometimes, and I hate it. It goes from everything between us that is good and easy, and then my brain just kicks in and goes welp, fuck this, let’s worry about  _everything_. It ruins the good, because I can’t appreciate it, when I’m too busy worrying if I did something wrong or said too much, or… you know?”

Wash stared at him, but this time it was patiently, while Tucker stared back and tried to figure out what he’d said that had elicited this reaction.

“Oh,” he said, after a moment, and laughed. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

“Yet I’m standing here right now.”

“True,” Tucker agreed again, but the worry in his expression had been replaced with some relief. “And I don’t think you have a setting that involves anything _but_ overthinking things. Seriously.”

Wash let that slide. “I understand exactly what you’re saying,” he said instead, catching onto the part of him that ached to let it all out, or at least enough — enough for Tucker to understand, enough for them to be on the same page, _enough._

Anything to keep Tucker close to him, where there was so many possibilities between them that Wash could barely breathe thinking about them.

“But you didn’t overthink it before,” Tucker said, and the air seemed to get a little heavier with the reminder.

“No,” Wash agreed, his eyes on Tucker’s. “I didn’t think at all. I just… acted.”

“That’s how I live, dude. Except with you.”

That comment brought Wash’s attention back to reality, and he realised he’d been leaning forward. Abruptly, he pulled back, and scrubbed at his face to clear his head. Tucker didn’t seem to notice, too wrapped up in his eagerness to finally let it out, and Wash understood. He didn’t want Tucker bottling up anything more, because he’d seen how he was when he tried to hide it and it hadn’t sat well with Wash at all.

If Tucker wanted to get it out in the open, Wash would only encourage him.

 _Might as well,_ the world seemed to say, and Wash nodded. Might as well.

“When I first… started figuring things out,” Tucker said, with more tact than Wash had expected from him, “it was like, fuck. I had to stop wanting to act on every impulse I had with you, and curb it down to what didn’t look suss. You know, keeping distance, all that shit, because I was afraid you’d read into it and see too much, y’know? Even though _before_ I realised, I was acting exactly the same. All that had really changed was that I knew more about it and it meant more to me, kinda thing.”

Wash nodded, hiding his surprise. Tucker had clearly put a lot of thought into it.

“I probably wasn’t exactly always, you know, subtle,” Tucker admitted, chewing at his lip. “And sometimes, I’d swear you knew. You’d look at me too long, or I’d do something that would make you stop and like, think about things — whatever you do, I don’t know. It unnerved me, but it also kind of made me want it more, because you never pulled away. It felt like you’d go where I’d go.”

“What do you mean?”

Tucker ducked his head, but he wasn’t avoiding it, so Wash waited until he’d started to respond.

“You know,” he started, hesitantly. “I’d test things, and you’d just go along with it. Like the bed thing,” he said, when Wash opened his mouth to ask again. “Seeing how close you’d let me get, without like, causing any problems with anything.”

Wash understood what he meant by the last part. He’d avoided trying to push Wash’s buttons, tried not to go too far and make him defensive, when a bad reaction could cause a lot of grief between them.

“I didn’t just forget that you’ve always been touchy,” Tucker said, softly, but something in his voice had changed. “Do you promise me the only reason you’ve been gone so much lately is because of all the shit that’s been happening outside of this? With Felix, and Locus? I’m not saying it’s not a good enough reason, I’m just asking is it the _only_ one. Be honest with me.”

“Of course it is. Why do you ask?”

Tucker sighed, and Wash’s attention returned to him. “I just wanted to make sure,” he said, heavily.

Slowly, Wash nodded. “You thought it was because of you. You thought I’d been so distant lately just because of you? Tucker, _how?”_

Tucker fidgeted. “I thought I went too far,” he said, defensively. “Maybe not with exactly just the one thing, but overall, and then I didn’t know what was going on anymore. There, y’know, was the possibility that maybe I’d made you realise everything, or that it made you change your mind, or—”

“Change my mind on what?”

“I don’t know, if you’d had _any idea_ about whether you even remotely wanted it or not!” Tucker’s face darkened and he looked away.

Wash faltered. “I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely, and Tucker rolled his eyes but made a conscious effort to let his frustration go.

“Just, tell me… did you have _any_ clue before any of this shit?”

“About you, or me?" 

“Both,” Tucker said, immediately, and Wash frowned when he realised he’d opened himself up.

“Alright,” he said, because he knew Tucker was giving, and he had to give something back. “Well, it’s safe to say that I was for the most part clueless about you.”

“For the most part?” Tucker jumped in, eyes flashing with interest.

Wash nodded. “You were somewhat right. Some things you said… I thought about them, a lot. I tried not to read too much into your actions, because I was worried I would misinterpret them. But sometimes, the things you said, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about them.”

“Like what?”

“The conversation we had about Grif and Simmons,” Wash admitted, without hesitation. He’d already had that answer ready on his tongue. “What you said about love, what you thought it meant…” he trailed off there, unwilling to delve any further, and Tucker seemed content to let him.

“I kinda thought so, after,” he said, thoughtfully. “That’s a good one, actually. I couldn’t stop thinking about the look on your face afterwards.”

“Well.” Wash shifted, cleared his throat, tried not to let the warmth that ignited within him show. “Apart from that, lots of little things. But usually, I wouldn’t let myself think too much about it, and if I did, I never reached any real conclusion about you. Only about myself, I suppose, and what it meant for me.”

Tucker’s eyes refocused on him, his gaze so heavy that Wash wanted to crumble underneath it. “What did it mean for you?” he asked, and Wash felt his throat dry up again.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted. “No, Tucker— I mean I really _don’t know_. All of this is so unfamiliar to me. None of it is anything I know about, or could do anything about. I don’t know how to put terms to it that you would understand.”

“Then tell me how you understood it,” Tucker invited him, his voice soft again, and the combination of his words and how he’d said them made Wash shiver.

It had been — whether Tucker had intended it or not — the right thing to say. Because part of Wash’s downfall was that he didn’t know how to explain things in any other ways than how _he_ understood it, what meaning it held in his damaged, different world, and this was one of the most prominent examples of all.

“Well,” he started, carefully, choosing the words slowly as they came to him, “what we said earlier. How you were the start of — of everything, for me, basically. You were the base of my friendships, my socialising — every relationship that I developed stemmed from you.”

Tucker nodded, and Wash realised a moment too late that what he’d said hadn’t been exactly right — Felix had slipped his mind, only momentarily, but it had been enough. He shook himself and focused.

“It made it difficult for me to separate and understand things,” he said, in a rush. “I didn’t know what was the close friendship we developed based on proximity, and what was anything else. It took me time to even figure out when I’d started wanting the time with you, rather than needing it, because in a way I think it will always somewhat be intertwined.”

Tucker chewed at his lip and watched him, transfixed.

“So it was, and still is, hard for me to figure out what is just… and what could be anything else.”

“How do you figure it out?”

Wash knew his reluctance to answer was evident in his hesitation, but Tucker didn’t give him any way out, so he was forced to respond. “I don’t have any set way,” he admitted. “It’s… blurred. Like I said, there’s been nobody like you.” He paused for a beat. “I have, uh, I’ve drawn a lot of connections to, well… Simmons and Grif.”

Tucker scrunched up his nose. “Come on,” he complained, but Wash shook his head.

“You might not see what I see, but I spend a lot more time with Simmons, and you… well.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve learnt a lot from watching them, and you said it yourself. We might not be on that level, or anywhere near it, but the foundations are there. At least, that’s how I perceived it.”

Tucker looked like he was going to argue it, or at least question it, but after a moment of thoughtful silence he nodded. “Alright. And you’re convinced that, you know, it’s legit?”

Wash tried to figure out what he meant, but gave up after a moment, and he tilted his head questioningly.

“You said there’s nobody else like me,” Tucker said, uncertainty in his tone, and Wash didn’t know what he’d said to cause it but the fact that it was there meant that he’d said something very wrong.

If Tucker had any idea about the realisations that Wash had experienced with finally getting to kiss him — there could never be _any_ doubt in either of their minds.

“You know that I’m like, probably half of the people you know well and talk to on a regular basis. You haven’t exactly explored the world, Wash,” Tucker continued, when he didn’t respond. “What if it’s just because you don’t know enough people to know better?”

Wash didn’t know how to respond to that. For a moment, he couldn’t — he was inundated with an onslaught of memories, of lingering looks with Tucker, lingering _touches_ , the moments of understanding between them and the ache to be nearby, dreaming about kissing him, and then finally _of_ kissing him, of the undeniable and irrefutable feeling it conjured up in his chest.

No, he might not have known love exactly, but he knew how he felt, and that was enough for him.

“I couldn’t imagine it with anyone else,” he said hoarsely, but he didn’t give Tucker a chance to respond before he stepped closer and caught his wrist.

The little movement was quickly becoming more significant to them than anything, although it had always meant something before. He only hesitated a second before sliding it down to Tucker's hand, where their fingers brushed against each other, and then interlocked.

“What makes it like this for you?” Wash asked, and he summoned his courage to move his body closer to Tucker’s, the current dancing between them, and Tucker took a shuddering breath.

“Everything,” he answered, before he had a chance to have thought it through, and Wash ducked his head down to hide his smile. Tucker smiled back up at him, and Wash’s heart resumed pounding away in his chest.

“No, seriously,” Tucker was saying, but he looked a little side-tracked. “Everything. Lots of things. I think I felt it from near the start, it just — like you said, I guess — just took me time to figure out how different it was. But I knew early on. That’s what made it like this. There was something different about you, and I might not have the best words for it, exactly, but I knew I didn’t want to just let it go. Even if you’re insufferable sometimes.”

Wash’s eyebrows shot up. “ _I’m_ insufferable?” he repeated, distracted. “Tucker, I don’t think you’ve ever listened to yourself talk.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean, Wash,” Tucker said, frowning back at him, and he just rolled his eyes.

“Well,” he said, and let that fall to the wayside as his gaze caught on Tucker’s and lingered there. “Is that how you think of it?”

“Why do you think I’m so against letting you go? It all comes together, dude. I never want to be away from you, and if I have my way, I never fucking will be.”

Wash ducked his head, but no answer came to him. The way Tucker had spoken, how protectiveness had wrapped around the words as they’d curled through his lips left him struggling to even breathe properly, because it had sounded _just_ how Wash felt when he thought about leaving Tucker.

“It’s fine,” Tucker assured, absentmindedly, and he squeezed Wash’s hand. “We should probably, uh. Save this for when it’s a bit more private.”

He looked pointedly to the front of the cell. Wash turned, and although no one was there, he knew that they weren’t exactly away from prying eyes. Having three walls on either side was nice, but the open cell front to the room made him wary.

“Been one hell of a day,” Tucker murmured, and rubbed at his temples.

Wash hesitated. "I’m sorry,” he said, simply. “It has been, and it’s because of me. I should have… I should have tried to talk to you sooner.”

“No,” Tucker corrected, “You _should_ have talked to me earlier. No trying about it. I know neither of us are the biggest talkers, exactly, Wash — but so much of this could have been avoided if you’d just fucking talked to me. I know I sound like a hypocrite, but don't tell me you can't see how this is like, the same fucking situation I went through.”

Wash's words were quiet. “I didn’t know how you felt about the situation."

“So? So what? Even if I _hadn’t_ been convinced I’d fucked this to the world and back by pushing it too far, you would have seriously fucked with my perceptions of our friendship by pulling this shit. You should have told me, Wash. I could have helped.”

He shook his head. “Tucker, what I did… it still stands. And I can’t just stop now, when there’s still a risk…”

“Then take me with you when you leave.”

Tucker’s suggestion had been innocent enough, but for Wash, the implications of what could go wrong seemed devastating. He paused, frozen, only one twitch escaping him as his mind was bombarded with images of Tucker in front of Locus, of the two of them alone, of a sharp glint of a knife and Locus following an oblivious Tucker down an empty corridor…

Tucker’s words had stirred up Wash’s greatest fears in his mind, and he was suddenly so very _cold_.

“ _No,”_ he finally hissed, when his voice worked again. “No. Absolutely not. Things can’t change like that, Tucker. You have to keep your distance.”

His voice cracked, but Tucker didn’t say anything, still staring up with wide eyes. Wash wasn’t looking at him. The images had faded, replaced with memories, of how Locus had cornered him, and how when Tucker had arrived, the way Locus had looked at him — his conflicting dislike and interest, and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

The fact that he could kill Tucker so easily.

“You can’t,” he repeated, when he finally returned back into the present.

“Wash—”

“ _No_ , Tucker. I can’t risk you like that — _why_ do you think I’ve been keeping my distance?"

“But you haven’t seen him,” Tucker repeated, frustrated, gaining steam as the surprise faded. “If this is how you want to argue it? Fine. It’s been how long? A few weeks? Come on, dude. Don’t get me wrong, I get it, but if you think I’m going to let you go running off again, after _all_ this, then you’re _seriously_ —”

“Tucker,” Wash said again, and finally, he was able to suppress the memories from his mind and see clearly. “This… this is something that goes far beyond just you and me. It’s serious.”

“Well yeah,” Tucker said, as if he was pointing out the obvious. “It’s serious, and it’s still a mess, but I already feel better about it. I mean, we’re standing here right now, we just figured some shit out, and if we stick together, how bad can it be? Have a little _faith_ , Wash. You don’t have to be so scared of everything going wrong when someone has your back. And I _do_ have your back. I always will.”

With a start, Wash realised he was right. Maybe it was the way his heart still hadn’t steadied after his bombardment of fears before, or maybe it was because it was such a simple statement, a small fact that held so much truth, but it was _staggering_. It was a way that Wash had never stopped to consider, a perspective he’d never been able to adopt, so foreign and previously inconceivable to him that he’d never been able to stop and truly appreciate the fact that things could be worse, and yet Tucker made it more clear to him than anything.

It made him want to kiss him again, but a number of things held him back.

“You put things in such a different perspective for me," he finally said.

"Huh?"

"You appreciate things in a way I never thought about.”

Tucker looked like he didn't know what to think of that. “Is that good?”

Wash ducked his head down to hide the corners of his lips tugging up. “Yes,” he said, simply, then decided to elaborate. “You let me see the positive side of things.”

Tucker’s expression cleared. “Oh,” he said. “Fuck knows you need that.” He stopped, frowned. “Then why’d you lose the happy look?”

_Everything that’s wrong with this situation._

He settled on a smaller truth. “I was thinking that I didn’t want to push it.”

Tucker nodded thoughtfully, sucked on his bottom lip for a moment, then nodded again. “Okay. Alright. Ground rules. I get what you mean by pushing it, but, I’m not sure. I have a feeling you view it probably a bit differently than I do.”

There was no snide comment following that, which meant Tucker was taking it seriously. And he was actually discussing it like a proper, important matter, which was an astonishing feat in and of itself. It was comforting — and then, as he watched Tucker, and brown eyes lifted to meet grey, a sudden feeling of warmth spread through his chest.

A moment of communication, of understanding and trust and familiar knowing that resulted in another weight lifted, because in that moment, looking at Tucker, Wash felt nothing but relief, at the possibility that things might just turn out okay.

They smiled at each other, tentatively, before Tucker laughed and looked away. He mumbled something under his breath that Wash was probably glad he didn’t hear, before he turned back, the smile still shining out in his eyes.

“I think that it’s okay,” he said, and it was so in line with Wash’s thoughts that for a moment he couldn’t answer.

He must have taken Wash’s quiet as confusion, because he elaborated, and Wash marvelled at how hard he tried to keep the casual façade when his honesty was golden and pure when he broke it.

“If it’s really as okay with you as I hope it is… then it’s okay. If you get me.”

“I do,” Wash said, wanting to give something back to him. “It’s okay. And I’m sorry for… for how I just acted. You don’t understand how much I can’t even begin to consider that idea. I won’t have you near him, Tucker. Even if he doesn't have any interest in you, even if he doesn't have any in _me_. How could I risk it?”

“But—”

“Please. I just… I just want to have this. For a little while.”

Miraculously, Tucker understood, and it seemed to be enough to make him fall quiet. Wash was still unhappy with even the idea of Tucker being _near_ him when Locus was still an issue, but he couldn’t deny that he was about as unhappy with Tucker being _away_ from him as Tucker was.

“You okay?” Tucker murmured, and his warm hand was there, grounding. Reassuring.

The feeling of relief that had bloomed in Wash’s chest seemed to seep into the atmosphere, strengthened and thickened by the way Tucker met his eyes without a trace of doubt, without any of the hesitation that had ruled them before, and it seemed to be encompassing.

Like they could both finally accept that it _was_ okay, and begin opening the doors that they’d just unlocked with one another.

A thrill shot through Wash as he understood the gravity of just what that _meant._ It meant _Tucker_ , in all his goodness and glory, in all his petulance and frustration, during his good days and his bad, his bright smiles and the crease in between his eyes when he frowned and no longer hiding his expressions from Wash and —

And everything good.

“Let’s get out of here,” Tucker decided. “I think we had a day of chillaxing planned, and I would love for it to go down somewhere that we can smoke.”

“Tucker, wait.”

“What?”

Wash didn’t know what to say. “We can’t just leave it at this.”

“Sure we can. Why the hell not?”

“You don’t think it would be a bad idea?”

“I’m sure if we needed to talk about anything, we’d…” Tucker trailed off, as he realised what he was saying, and when he turned his gaze back to Wash he sighed. “Okay, you’re right. But listen, I’m not a fan of rules, or labels, or whatever. I’m a _wing it_ kinda guy.”

“That’s… not what I’m talking about.”

“Oh.”

“I was referring more to how we should proceed from here. Locus, specifically. But yes, also what we say and don’t say, and what’s going to happen again.” Although he didn’t look at Tucker, he knew it was obvious what he was alluding to in the last part of the sentence.

“Oh,” Tucker said again, this time softly.

“I’m a big fan of not saying things.”

“Yeah, understatement,” Tucker snorted. “And totally unnecessary to say. I could have known that without you pointing it out.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you meant, dude.” Tucker waved away Wash’s annoyed tone. “Like I said, I could have known without you pointing it out. And believe me, I’m fine with that. The only person I really tell shit to is Grif, and trust me, I can imagine his reaction if I ever tried to now. _Not_ that I’d want to,” he hurried to assure. “Just, yeah.”

“Okay,” Wash said simply, digesting that information. “What I wanted to say was that yes, I will try and be as honest and genuine as possible with you. We don’t have to, well, label it.”

“Oh,” Tucker said again. “What if I want to?”

“I thought you just said—” Wash’s words caught in his throat before he cleared it, and quickly changed paths. “Well, I— I suppose we could.”

“I want to. I mean, just between you and me.”

Wash nodded, hesitantly.

“I mean,” Tucker said, softly, “we did kiss.”

“We did.” Wash’s throat was dry.

“And the whole reason I actually tried to sort this shit out might have been so that we could do it again.”

“That would… make sense.”

“So… do you think we’ve sorted it out enough?”

Wash nodded again, unable to speak, because Tucker’s eyelids had dropped and his lips shaped so _softly_ around his words, when his words were already dizzying enough. As if aware of it, Tucker pulled back, ever so slightly.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, in a tone that should have made Wash worried, but instead filled him with anticipation.

It chased away the warm, heady haze that had fallen over him, and he pulled back with a clear of his throat. “Ah,” he managed. “What was I saying?”

Tucker looked delighted. “You tell me.”

“I, uh. Right.” He shook himself. “The… other issue.”

Tucker blinked with understanding, then frowned. “Felix.”

“Locus,” Wash corrected, and Tucker’s frown deepened. “What we were saying… I know you don’t agree, but _please understand_ , it’s—”

“ _No_ ,” Tucker interrupted, loudly, before he could even really begin. “Look, I’m with you— I _don’t_ want to fight about it. Definitely not now, we just sorted shit out. But _listen_ to me, Wash: I’m _not_ letting you disappear again. Let’s get that straight and go.”

Once again, guilt rose in Wash’s throat and left him unable to speak for a second, before he cleared it and started again. “Tucker, I _told_ you. This is important. This is… this is bigger than that.”

“Obviously to you,” Tucker said, unhappily. “You didn’t get left behind this whole time.”

“I didn’t— _Tucker_. Why else would you think I’ve been doing this? Your safety is of utmost importance to me, and I’m not going to put you at risk unnecessarily.”

“Or so you can hide in peace and let your paranoia fucking rule you,” Tucker pointed out. “And I’m not going to let that keep happening. You might not be able to see it Wash, but jesus— I don’t think you actually understand that it’s really becoming an issue.”

Tucker’s words threw him off. Something about them made him uncomfortable, resonated with him on a level far deeper than he thought they should, and it took him a moment to shake it off.

“You’re forgetting who we’re dealing with,” he reminded. “This isn’t just anybody. You of all people seem to know that, so perhaps it’s for the better if you keep it in mind before you go trying to put yourself in danger.”

“You said you haven’t even seen him,” Tucker argued. “I trust you Wash, and I’m agreeing with you when you think that he’s a threat— what I’m _trying_ to say is that two pairs of eyes are better than one. You don’t have to isolate yourself — you’re just making it worse. How can you not see that?”

“That’s _not_ —”

“I’ve been talking to you again properly for only a few hours, and I can already tell.” His eyes danced on Wash’s worriedly, threatened to bring back the uncomfortable feeling, so Wash reached up and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

“No,” he said simply. “It’s not worth the benefit. If he did find us—”

“ _If.”_

“… it would be too difficult trying to protect us both.”

Wash watched him, analysing his reaction to that, but Tucker took no offense. Instead, he was staring at Wash like he was an idiot — and for bringing this up all over again, and ruining the brief moments of bliss that he’d had before, Wash felt like he was.

“If I’m such a burden,” Tucker began, somewhat slyly, “then teach me how to fight.”

Wash stopped, stunned, and for two beats it was quiet. Then, “No.”

“But—”

“Tucker. _No_.”

“So you’ll leave me defenceless in the case of the worst scenario?” Tucker stared up at him. “That’s pretty bad, Wash. I thought my safety was of _utmost importance._ ”

“It is,” Wash said, and somehow he managed to keep his voice even in the midst of his storm of emotions, all centred around the thought of Tucker facing up against _Locus_. He’d thought what he’d pictured before was bad, but this made him borderline physically _sick._

“So help me learn so that I can help more when we’re out.”

“That’s not— it doesn’t — Tucker, _no_ —”

"Are you serious right now?" Tucker burst out. "I come up with an obvious solution to both problems, and you _still_ won’t take it? Don't get me fucking wrong, but I'm kind of letting you off the hook here. You haven't even explained to me _why_ he hit you in the first place, let alone why he'd keep coming — I mean, yeah, sure, that's his nature, but still. I'd love some explanation, Wash, if you're so fucking worried about your safety.”

Wash grit his teeth. “I’m not _teaching you to fight_ , Tucker, that’s—”

“What? Outside your comfort zone? When the alternative is barely _fucking_ see us until you’re happy? No offense, Wash, and I hate to break it to you, but you are _paranoid._ I’m not saying you’re wrong, or you shouldn’t be worried, but the fact is that you’re a paranoid person. You shouldn’t be alone out there, and if I’d known that _that_ was the reason for all this, I—”

Wash’s voice was low and dark. “You _didn’t_ know, and it was for a good reason—”

“Because you didn’t want to tell me,” Tucker shot. “Sure, my safety, yeah whatever, but don’t think I don’t recognise being avoided. You didn’t want to tell me.”

Wash shook his head and bypassed everything Tucker was saying. He couldn’t respond to it. “It’s not happening, Tucker,” he said.

His voice was quiet, but Tucker returned even louder, as if to make up for it.

“I don’t fucking _see_ why you’d prefer just to fucking ditch everyone again, go around hiding, when we can actually do something to actively protect us! I _get_ that you don’t like it, Wash, but don’t you think it’s worth it?”

His accusations made Wash tense, even though he was right.

“Nothing I could teach you in a limited time would be enough—” he started to say, his voice rising in response.

 _“Better than nothing!_  You’d seriously rather just fucking leave us again? Is the thought of trying to help _that bad_? What, you don’t want me around?”

“No, Tucker, of course not.” The genuine note in his voice clearly registered with Tucker, because he deflated and turned away. Wash continued. “It’s just— it’s not worth the small risk that you might run into— into anyone that could hurt you. I’ve been looking out for you, Tucker, for everyone, and I’ll make sure that nobody gets anywhere near you.”

Tucker’s nostrils flared, but his eyes glinted, and Wash knew he’d caught onto what he’d tried not to say. “But against Locus,” he said, shortly. “You can’t fight off all of them. Just _if_ anything happens, you’re saying I’d be left defenceless with Locus and his friends.”

Wash tensed, the thought filling him with a coldblooded anger that flowed through his veins. His emotions were raging, and he felt sick from the rapid moodswings after weeks of repressing most of his emotion.

“Tucker,” he said through his teeth. “That’s _not_ going to happen. I’ll make sure of it. You’re not the target here,” he reminded.

“But you might be, which means, in turn—”

“Tucker!” 

“No, Wash, this is bullshit!”

They were on their feet, staring at one another, both breathing hard, tension thick in the atmosphere. They were so engaged in one another and the argument as it expanded that it took Wash a second too late to notice the boy standing in the door of the cell. He whirled, his lips pulling back over his teeth, to see Simmons standing meekly in the doorway.

“Grif said you, uh, might be arguing,” he said, tentatively.

It took some time for them both to calm from their initial reaction, and then several more moments for them to get their thoughts together.

Tucker spoke first. “What are you doing here?” 

He stepped forward, and Wash moved in tandem with him. Seemingly without thinking, Tucker laid a hand on Wash’s wrist, as if to say it was okay, and continued forward. Simmons’ eyes darted down, and then flew up, meeting Wash’s in surprise. ash didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to think about Tucker’s subconscious touch and what Simmons thought about it, so he stayed quiet and remained where he was.

“What are you doing here?” Tucker asked again, but some of the annoyance had faded from his voice. “Grif sent you?”

“No! No, no.” Simmons hurried to assure him. “Well, um.”

“Simmons,” Tucker growled, and this time Simmons eyes flew to Wash’s as if to ask for help.

When he got none, he swallowed, and lifted his slender shoulders in a half-shrug. “I guess?” he tried, and Tucker made another noise that sounded conspicuously like a growl. “Okay, not so much _sent me_ , more just, implied I should. You know, to make sure everything is okay… which it looks like it is! So I should probably be going…”

“Did he send you to spy on us?” Tucker asked, and this time the surprise on Simmons’ face was real.

“What? No! Of course not! He just knew something was wrong, and he wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything too bad.”

Tucker snorted. “That’s code for spying on us,” he said over his shoulder to Wash, who frowned at Simmons.

“It _really_ wasn’t,” Simmons denied. “He really did just want to make sure everything was okay. He didn’t even know if you’d still be here, this was just a guess. Anyway, I wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the doorway if I was trying to _spy_ on you. Also, _Wash_.”

Tucker huffed. “Alright,” he said, and nothing more.

“Okay, well,” Simmons said, and trailed off. “I guess that’s my cue to go.” He hesitated, as if waiting for one of them to say something, and Washington gratefully jumped on the opportunity.

“We were just leaving too. Tucker, you need to go with Simmons. To sort things out with Grif, who’s obviously got _some_ feelings about the situation.”

Tucker, who’d begun to puff up at the first half of the sentence, deflated at the last half.

“I see what you’re doing, and I don’t like it. We’re not done here.”

“We are for now,” Wash said, and nodded towards Simmons. “It’s best if you stick together.”

Simmons, who was watching them curiously, looked sharply at Wash. Wash didn’t notice, too fixated on Tucker, who was gearing up to argue further.

“I’m not—”

“We can discuss this later, Tucker,” Wash said, with a tone of finality.

“When’s later, Wash?” Tucker shot back. “When you decide to come back to us for a bit? When you stop being so paranoid that you grace us with your presence for a little while?”

“Tonight, Tucker,” Wash said patiently, ignoring the way the words dug in under his skin. “When we are locked in a cell together overnight. I’m sure we’ll get an opportunity to talk at some point then.”

“You bet we will,” Tucker threatend, and finally turned back towards Simmons. “Come on then, let’s go. I’m done here after all.”

Wash covered his grimace. He knew Tucker was just frustrated that he hadn’t gotten his way, but it still hurt him to see Tucker go on such an unhappy note. Tucker seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he hesitated at the cell door, where Simmons was waiting for him. There, he debated for a moment, before glancing surreptitiously at Simmons, who caught it and stared blankly back.

“Can you give us a minute?” Tucker asked him, and it took a second for Simmons to respond.

“Oh, yeah! Of course!” he said, scrambling, and backed away.

Tucker turned back, but all the fight was gone from him, and with some relief Wash let the tension fade from his shoulders as Tucker stepped back closer towards him. “Figures we’d be fighting goddamn _immediately_ ,” he mumbled. “Grif was right.”

Wash tried not to frown at what that had meant, and decided to let it slide in favour of reaching out towards Tucker. Without any hesitation, Tucker accepted his hand, and let himself be tugged closer towards him.

“I’m sorry,” Wash said, softly, revelling in the ease of that action. “But your safety is one of the few things that I would find worth fighting about with you right now. Possibly the _only_ thing, Tucker. I didn’t want to start off like this either, but… I can’t let you—”

“Stop there, dude,” Tucker sighed, his hand up as if to stop Wash in his tracks. “I get it. Really, I do,” he said, when Wash glanced at him doubtfully. “Don’t you see? This is exactly the same thing _I’m_ fighting about. You, being off on your goddamn own, where I can’t do shit if you need me.”

“Tucker…”

“Just, shh. We’ll talk about it later. We _will_.”

“I know, Tucker. I don’t… I don’t want to leave you either.”

Tucker seemed surprised by that, but it quickly morphed into a blinding grin, and Wash felt his heart thump in his chest and wondered why he wasn’t more honest with Tucker sooner.

“Good,” he said, and Wash didn’t have a moment to wonder why before it clicked.

As Tucker closed the distance between them and leant up, it clicked. As he didn’t hesitate before he reached out to wind one hand around Tucker’s shoulder and pull him towards him, it clicked. And his lips pressed to Tucker’s and his chest burst with everything good because it had, finally, fully and completely, _clicked._

The truth swelled over him like a crashing wave, and he welcomed it.

“You are everything to me,” he murmured against Tucker’s lips, and his voice was rough and low.

Tucker shuddered under him, and his eyes flickered slowly open to meet Wash’s.

“I—”

“ _Everything,_ Tucker.”

And he watched while it registered in Tucker’s eyes just how true that statement was.

He didn’t expect Tucker to say it back, because it wouldn’t have been quite right. Tucker had other things. Other _people._ He had a son and a best friend and a family, things outside of Wash that didn’t exist in his world. He understood, so he wasn’t surprised when Tucker didn’t say it, when he only closed his eyes and pulled back until his forehead rested against Washington’s.

“ _Fuck,_ Wash, I—”

“It’s okay, Tucker,” Wash murmured, and pulled back so that he could press his lips where moments ago his forehead had been.

Tucker shivered under his touch. “I’ll _show_ you,” he whispered.

Although his words were simple, Wash didn’t understand them, but he felt the weight of the promises and the sincerity in Tucker’s voice so he nodded like he did and just let it be.

“ _Oh_ ,” a voice behind them squeaked, and they reluctantly pulled apart to look at Simmons.

“Dude…” Tucker sighed, but he stepped back from Wash with apologies in his eyes.

“I’ll see you soon, Tucker,” Wash said, as way of goodbye, but Tucker looked at him very meaningfully.

“You will,” he promised. “You have to.”

The emotion in his words wrapped around Wash’s heart and squeezed. Abruptly, the thought of heading off by himself again filled him with sadness and reluctance, and he wished he could stay with Tucker.

He wanted to, so _why couldn’t he just let himself?_

“Wash?”

Tucker’s eyes were trained on his worriedly. Wash swallowed and forced himself to speak the words that wanted so badly to burst from his lips. “I’ll try harder. To be there.”

The dazzling smile was back again, and Wash wondered if Tucker knew exactly what that smile could do to him.

“Should I just go?” Simmons interrupted again, ever the master of tact.

Tucker rolled his eyes, but he let his smile linger in Wash’s direction for a few moments before he turned to face Simmons where he stood, gaping at them from the door to the cell. He joined him and in a heartbeat they were gone, their chattering voices echoing down the walkway.

Wash was left alone in Grif and Simmons’ cell, but that fact barely even registered to him. With the memory of Tucker lingering on his skin, the promises and the assurances and the understanding, the _click_ —

Swirling with revelations, discoveries, promises, a brighter light in the form of Tucker.


	28. dependent peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some fuckery, some serious feelings, some build up. 
> 
> thank you for your patience, & find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

For a while after, Wash wandered aimlessly. It was simple, one foot in front of the other, step after echoing step. Look up, glance around, check for anything unusual, lose himself back in his thoughts again. Over and over again, running over the events of the past few hours as he tried to spend the time that only days ago had flown by so easily. Then, he knew that only days ago, he didn’t think he’d be able to come back to Tucker anytime soon.

After all, what had really changed? The threats were still there, the only difference was that Tucker somewhat knew—

More than that.

Yes, he knew, but it was the fact that he knew that allowed him to be the agent of change, and change was what he had brought. All of a sudden, Wash wasn’t thinking about which area would be least occupied at this time, where he could hide the easiest, how long it would be until he could emerge again to hold a stilted, __not quite right__ conversation around their table — he was thinking about how long it would take Tucker to sort things out with Grif so that he could see him again, counting down the hours until dinner, until __afterwards__ , when it was just the two of them, locked in their cell, familiar and needed and safe.

It was the fact that Tucker had always registered in his mind as a priority, but now Wash could __make__ him one, and begin to explore everything that had been opened up between them.

Kissing him. Kissing Tucker — it could really be something that he could do. It filled him with more emotions than he understood or knew what to do with, but there was more to it than that. Beyond what they’d already uncovered, to what they were just beginning to explore, for what it meant for their everyday actions.

 _ _That__ was what Wash couldn’t really wrap his head around. The fact that the simple moments between them could be wholly appreciated. No pulling away, no second guessing, no questioning and anxiety and self-consciousness. Just the comfort, the familiarity, the __happines__ _ _s,__ everything that seemed to come so consistently with Tucker could be his without any of the drawbacks that had been weighing on him so painfully for what seemed like so long.

And now that Tucker felt the same for him — the unspoken, unacknowledged, and for the most part __denied__ possibility that Wash had never let himself dwell on — it meant everything, because even though he’d still been really figuring it out, he wouldn’t have expected Tucker to have ever felt the same. Not just about kissing him, but about his simple company — about just spending time with him, being with him, in the comforting way they’d built with each other.

He’d never considered that Tucker would want him back like he’d wanted him. He didn’t expect it, didn’t deserve it, didn’t __understand__ it — but it was true nonetheless, because it was Tucker who’d said it. Tucker who’d meant it. Tucker who’d wanted to stay with him, despite the danger, and Tucker, who’d fought for it, and argued with him, and still kissed him afterwards.

He didn’t think it explicitly, but the subconscious thought drifting around his mind was driving every thought and behaviour, and it spoke for itself.

__I can be with Tucker._ _

Yet, every time he thought that, something in his heart wrenched. A small, niggling truth that refused to be squashed worked its way through him, reminding him that he still had so much to do. He __could__ be with Tucker, but first, he had a lot to deal with. He still didn’t have answers to what Locus wanted, to what had happened to Felix and __why why why,__  and he couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that Tucker was safe when he was with him.

How, when his skin still crawled every time he was in the open, and he was always a split second too slow to catch the eyes that lingered on him, could he put Tucker at risk?

The thought set every hair on his neck standing on end. It wasn’t fair, but it didn’t matter that it wasn’t fair, what mattered was that he __couldn’t__. He couldn’t put Tucker at risk like that, couldn’t put any of them, and that was the entire goddamn reason why he’d put so much distance between them to start with.

He did, reluctantly, understand why Tucker was doubtful. Or, he understood __enough__. He didn’t want to be away from Tucker either, but what Tucker didn’t seem to understand was that being apart was the only real option for them.

After all, what other options did he have?

On one hand, he had Felix. The remnant bruises still stubbornly decorating his cheekbones, deepening the shadows under his eyes. Still damaged from what he’d faced under Locus’ fists, physical evidence that was only a fraction of what it really meant. Still __healing,__  because no doubt there was a lot more damage than just met the eye.

In the middle, Locus. Dangerous, unknown, an unwavering threat that Washington knew so painfully little about. Watching. Deadly. More than Wash could handle, more than he wanted to, and everything that he had to be ready for.

Finally, on the other hand, he had Tucker, and everything that had rapidly changed between them. The stakes had suddenly risen, seemingly exponentially, and Wash was in the position where he had to __move__. No longer could he stay in the middle, balancing, __barely__ , teetering and tottering back and forth. Now he had to act, because against anything he’d expected, despite what he’d done, despite what he __deserved__ , he had something with Tucker now that rose above everything else.

Or maybe—

Maybe he could now admit to himself that it had always been like that. The difference was that now he __held__ it, the tentative but trusting beginnings of something beyond what he could imagined, cradled carefully in his hands. It was him who had the power to take it, gently, and make the best of it that he possibly could.

He knew what __that__ meant.

It meant finding Felix, because as much as he didn’t want to, he had to give what he could, and end it for good. He knew he couldn’t just leave it — Felix deserved better than that, deserved better than __him__ , but all Wash could offer was an apology, and the chance to stop anything from getting any worse.

Why was it that everyone else suffered for what he did wrong? He never should have risked his relationship with Tucker to befriend Felix, and had he known that Felix was risking __himself__  —

He hadn’t known, though, because Felix hadn’t told him. It felt __strange,__ something ringing wrong that Felix had fought so hard to be his friend despite everything, when he’d knowingly put himself in so much danger to do so.

Why? There was no way that it was for Wash himself. Nothing he could offer would justify this, __should__ justify it, so he knew there was a chance that there was something going on beyond what he was aware of. With Felix, it seemed, that was a common occurrence.

In the end, it didn’t matter. He had to keep anyone else from being hurt. He had to make sure Felix was never hurt for him again, and he had to  protect Tucker from Wash’s own mistakes, from the ties that should never have been forged in bad beginnings, uncertainty and mistrust, and the consequences that could occur as a result.

From Locus, and from the hurt that would come if he realised that Wash had committed what would be — what always __had been__  — considered a betrayal to Tucker.

He __had__ to keep Tucker from being hurt, and in turn, it would help keep Felix safe. Keep __himself__ safe, he realised a moment later, and briefly wondered when his priorities had shifted so immensely from __protect himself at all costs__ to—

Tucker.

To Tucker. The same answer that raised a thousand questions, and set Washington on the path he was now following down, down towards Felix. While he wanted nothing more than to lose himself thinking about him, the electric charge, the vibrant sensations, his eyes, his lips, his mouth…

It was time to deal with Felix.

Anything else, anything __he__ felt, the sorrow and guilt and unhappiness, didn’t matter. What mattered was protecting Tucker, and keeping Felix from more harm, even if it __hurt__. Deep down, in the pits of his stomach, surrounded by loyalty and a fierce sense of protectiveness, he felt wrong about what he had to do.

He knew it wasn’t Felix who was the problem. __He__ was. Always had been. A magnet for trouble, undeniably so, and Felix was his own little piece of trouble — because of Tucker, and because with him, came __Locus.__

Wash had to end it, before it could get any worse.

* * *

He didn’t find him that afternoon, nor did he see him at dinner, which wasn’t a huge surprise, all things considered. He gave up the search for the boy who he knew wouldn’t want to be found, in favour of turning up to dinner properly in the hopes that Tucker would be there.

He was, and they shared a smile across the packed mess hall when they spotted each other.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” Tucker said, when he joined him in line to get their trays of food.

“Same could be said of you,” Wash pointed out. “You’ve been scarce lately too. How’d it go with Grif?”

Tucker raised an eyebrow as he took his tray and moved aside to wait for Wash.

“He’s sulking. Wouldn’t talk to me. And how would you know that I’ve been __scarce__?” he asked, and Wash conceded to the unspoken question Tucker was asking.

“It’s only natural to want to keep an eye out,” he said. “I told you I’d make sure nobody would get near you.”

Tucker sucked on his teeth. “Tell me you don’t follow us everywhere,” he said, half-jokingly, but Wash didn’t laugh.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” he said, simply. “It’s just better to have a general idea of your whereabouts.”

“Just in case, right?” Tucker shook his head.

“Right.”

They sat at their table, which was empty so far apart from them, and began eating in companionable silence. Wash was aware of Tucker’s eyes on him every time he glanced up and around the room, which was frequently, but neither of them commented on it. They were quiet until Donut made his presence known, placing his tray down opposite them with a loud greeting.

“Hey, guys! How’s everybody doing? Man, this table looks empty. Where __is__  everyone?”

“Hey, Donut. Good. Dunno,” Tucker said, around his mouthful of food, then swallowed. “Grif’s sulking somewhere, Simmons is probably sucking his dick, and you’re usually with Caboose. No idea about Sarge.”

“I’ve been here all along,” Sarge crowed loudly, from across the cafeteria. He was standing in the line for food, with an oblivious looking Caboose only a few paces behind him.

“Heya, Sarge!” Donut called back, just as loudly. “How are you?”

“I’m quite good, Donut! Just waiting on this incredibly slow moving line!”

“Oh, Jesus,” Tucker groaned, and ducked his head in embarrassment. “Can you shut up? You can talk when he gets here, Donut, which shouldn’t be too long. Not that you need to yell anyway, he’s clearly got the hearing of a fucking bat.”

Donut frowned. “Well, he just got moved to the back, so I guess he’ll be a bit longer. Caboose is almost here, though.”

“I wonder why,” Tucker muttered. “Maybe it’s not a good idea to complain so loudly the whole mess hall can hear.”

“I’ll be there in a minute, Donut!” Sarge shouted, as if on cue. “I’ve just been moved to the back of this incredibly slow moving line again, for some reason!”

“Okie dokie!” Donut returned, and then turned to look back at them as Caboose arrived and sat on the other side of Tucker. “Caboose! How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good,” Caboose said. “Class today was boring. There wasn’t anyone there.”

“Is that so?” Donut raised a delicate eyebrow. “ _ _Nobody_?”_

“Oh, no. Well, maybe. I can’t remember. I think Andersmith was, but that might have been it.”

“What about Sarge?”

Caboose thought about it, then shook his head. Donut nodded thoughtfully, then turned his gaze to the two boys sitting opposite him.

“And where, pray tell, were you two today?”

Tucker scoffed. “Is that a question? I’m never fucking there.”

“Correction! You never __used__ to be there. Then Wash came, and you started turning up because he did. Then, when Wash stopped going, you stopped too. But you were together when I got here, so presumably you two were off somewhere?”

Wash said nothing, just kept his gaze trained on the table and focused on eating his food. Tucker, on the other hand, coughed loudly, and avoided Donut’s stare.

“I’ve been with Grif lately,” he deflected, but Donut gave him a predatory smile and leaned in.

“That’s funny,” he said, and Wash knew immediately that somehow, he knew. “I was under the impression that __I__ was with Grif today. Something about, he left you and Wash alone at his cell together?”

“Wow, he’s sure sinking low without me to hang out with,” Tucker commented, but Donut’s unwavering stare eventually had him fidgeting in his seat.

“What is it that you’re looking for, Donut?” Wash asked, taking the heat off Tucker and meeting Donut’s gaze evenly.

Donut looked at him for a few moments before he sat back with a light-hearted laugh. “Just to be filled in on the details, of course! You two are finally alone together after all this mysterious drama around Wash’s absence lately, and things seem to be going well, so…”

Tucker sighed. “He knows,” he said, and it wasn’t really a question, but Wash nodded anyway.

Obviously relieved to not have to keep up the charade of obliviousness, Donut sat up straight, and a broad smile lit up his face. “I can’t __begin__  to tell you how excited I am! When Simmons told me, you would not __believe__ how loud I screamed.”

“Very loud,” Caboose confirmed, and rubbed at an eardrum.

Tucker frowned at him, searching for a way to switch the subject before it delved any deeper into things he didn’t want to talk about. “I thought you were at school," he frowned at Caboose.

“I was,” Caboose said, unhelpfully.

“This was during rec hour,” Donut waved away, and planted his chin in his hands. “So, I do believe that I’m owed __some__ explanation.”

Tucker snorted. “No way in hell. I’m not putting myself through that.”

Donut rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m the number one supporter of __anything__  that happens here. I just want to make sure things go smoothly!”

“Okay, stop. No offense Donut, but your version of helping is usually really unhelpful. I’d rather just leave it for now, and __not__ go over every excruciating detail with you. No offense,” he said again, to lighten the blow.

It didn’t work. Donut’s bright smile had gone, and a trembling pout had taken its place. Even Wash felt bad, despite that he agreed with Tucker completely. However, he didn’t get a chance to voice his agreement, because Sarge had finally arrived at the table.

He took one look at Donut and glowered around at them. “What is the meaning of this?” 

Caboose answered for them. “Tucker made loud noises and made Donut sad. Very loud noises. He’s also very grumpy, and didn’t turn up to school today, so.”

“I’m not grumpy, Caboose,” Tucker argued. “And it’s not __my__ fault he’s sad. He’s asking questions about our love life, Sarge. Our _love_ life.”

Sarge closed his mouth and leaned back. “Well, uh,” he said, looking between Tucker and Donut, who was giving him puppy dog eyes. “That’s, uh. Not really…”

“ _ _Sarge_ ,_” Donut pleaded, but Sarge avoided his gaze.

“Sounds like it’s talk for another time,” he decided. “Let’s eat.”

They fell to silence as they ate, and Donut was left to sulk, pushing his tray away from him in a clear show of stubbornness. It only took a few minutes of silence and the aroma of food to make him give in before he begrudgingly pulled the tray back towards him and began picking at it.

“We’ll continue this later,” he warned the table, and there was finally peace.

After a while, Sarge cleared his throat, peering meaningfully across at them. “Where’s twiddledee and twiddledum? I don’t appreciate the lack of bodies on this side of the table. Never thought I’d say that, but Grif makes up enough bodies by himself to outnumber all of you, and right now it’s two against three. What’s this all about?”

Donut perked up. “Actually, it relates to what I was saying earlier,” he began, but Sarge quickly shook his head.

“Never mind, forget I asked.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Donut tried, but Sarge just shook his head and began humming loudly. “I just meant that they’re—”

“Can’t hear you!” Sarge called gruffly, his hands over his ears, and resumed humming loud enough to drown out Donut’s protest.

Donut resumed his pouting silence before he and Sarge looked up over Wash's shoulder simultaneously.

Wash twisted in his seat, Tucker a second behind him, and by the time that Caboose had looked up it was clear who the arrivals were. Silence fell around the table as Grif and Simmons passed by to get their food, and while they were in the short remaining line at the counter, Donut leaned in.

“Do either of you know what this is about? Last I checked, he was __not__ happy. I couldn’t even bribe him with Cheetos!”

“I didn’t think he’d turn up,” Tucker hissed. “I thought he’d be sulking at Felix’s.”

At the reminder, he glanced at Wash, before flicking his eyes up to where the two were reapproaching.

“Well, let’s make them welcome,” Donut said, quickly. “I don’t want any __real__ fights.”

As they leaned back, Simmons was the first to arrive, and quickly took his seat next to Sarge. “Hey, guys,” he said, hesitantly, to break the awkward silence that quickly grew.

Donut smiled at him. “Simmons! We didn’t expect you two to turn up.”

“Yeah... well, you know Grif. Won’t skip food.”

“Actually,” Grif cut in, very specifically ignoring everyone’s eye, “this time, it’s something different. Simmons, Donut, and I had a very interesting discussion earlier, and it piqued my curiosity.”

Tucker and Wash shared a tense glance. Wash hadn’t expected either of them to turn up, let alone __say__ anything, and by the look on Tucker’s face he hadn’t planned on it either. Whatever Grif was hinting at likely wasn’t good, but they had no idea what it was, so they decided to stay quiet in a mutual unspoken agreement.

“What’s that?” Sarge asked, warily. 

“Actually, Sarge…” Simmons spoke hesitantly. “It’s about you.”

It was Sarge’s turn to tense, and the whole atmosphere seemed to drop a few degrees in temperature. “And what exactly would that be?” he asked, very slowly.

“Relax.” Grif rolled his eyes. “It’s nothing bad.”

Donut frowned. “Hold on, you said __I__ was involved, but I don’t even have the faintest clue what you two could be talking about.” 

Sarge looked between them both, but his glare focused mainly on Grif, as if daring him to cross a line.

“Sarge?” Grif asked, in a fake nonchalance, after they’d waited in suspense for long enough. “What’s your first name?”

More quiet fell as everyone registered it. The surprise on Sarge’s face quickly disappeared, masked by a cool expression as he schooled his features to give nothing away.

Wash glanced at Tucker, but he was squinting at Grif, trying to determine if they were somehow meant to be in the crossfire here. It was a touchy subject, a fact that Wash knew well, and if Grif was trying to relate it to Tucker then there were going to be issues.

“Simmons doesn’t know?” he asked, not only to break the silence but to try and cut the subject short, just in case.

Tucker looked at Donut. Donut looked at Grif. Grif looked at Simmons. Caboose looked at the ceiling. Eventually, Simmons shrugged.

“Never thought about it,” he admitted.

“Yeah, thinking back on it, maybe we should have asked,” Donut nodded, scratching at his chin.

“Yeah, probably should have asked some questions,” Caboose agreed. “I always forget people’s names.”

“It’s a good point,” Donut conceded again. “We do know each other’s. I never thought about __asking__ him, though. Interesting tactic.”

“Yeah, sometimes you can just ask people things, instead of going through all the bullshit you do, Donut." Tucker rolled his eyes.

“Well I can’t be this well connected for __nothing__ , Tucker!”

Grif spoke over him. “Look, we all obviously want to know. We all know each other’s because of first day initiation shit. Someone’s always gunna say your name. Isn’t that right, Dick?” he jabbed, and Simmons frowned at him.

Wash looked at him in shock. “Really?” he managed, before he could help himself. “Your name is Dick?”

“ _ _Shut u_ p!”_

“What, are you embarrassed?” Grif snorted, ignoring Wash, and gave Simmons a harder nudge with his elbow.

Simmons whacked him away and glared at the floor. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Stop trying to make everybody else feel bad just because you do.”

Grif just grinned, but his eyes flashed behind them, and it was clear Simmons had hit a sore spot. “Whatever,” he mimicked. “It’s just good to have a name nobody can make fun of me for.”

He stretched his arms out in a yawn and glanced at Tucker, but if he’d planned on saying anything further, he decided against it. Wash glowered at him once for good measure, but followed in his footsteps and kept quiet. For whatever reason, the peace was being kept, despite the surprising turn of events.

“Didn’t you read all of our files, Simmons?” Donut mentioned, and at the reminder everybody turned their attention to him. “Didn’t you read Sarge’s?’

Simmons frowned again, but this time in concentration. “Now that you mention it, I did. But for the life of me, I don’t think I even looked at his name!”

“Seriously?” Grif looked at him. “How do you know the file was his, then?”

“The picture. All the rest of the information. Don’t be stupid, Grif.”

When Wash interrupted them, Tucker turned to him in surprise. “Simmons,” he said, and waited until he was looking at him. “I’ve been meaning to ask you; how exactly did you get a hold of those files? I’m sure that’s not exactly an easy thing.”

The annoyance on Simmons’ face faded, and he puffed up his chest in pride. “I’m a trusted errand runner at this place, I’ll have you know,” he informed him, grandly. “Very important, trustworthy stuff. They trust me to transfer important documents from one place to another, such as arrivals to the administration, and transfers to solitary, and so on.”

“Without looking,” Tucker said, and Simmons frowned once more.

“Well, yes, but—”

“But you look. Doesn’t sound that trustworthy to me.”

“I only __glance__ ,” Simmons assured him. “It’s just that having a photographic memory can help me remember huge quantities of information like that. It’s not like I take the time to read every bit of information, I’d never have time!”

“We’re getting off topic,” Grif cut in, impatiently. “I came here for one reason, and one reason only. If I’m not going to get it, I’m leaving, because __believe me__ ,” he said, and although he wasn’t looking at anybody, it was clear who he was speaking to, “I __don’t__ want to be here. In the slightest.”

 Simmons turned to Sarge hurriedly. “So, Sarge. What’s your first name?”

There was a heavy pause, full of expectation, while Sarge nodded to himself and considered responding. When he looked up, he huffed a breath of air out of his nose, and answered.

“Max.”

They looked at each other, stunned.

“Max?” Grif repeated.

“Uh huh.” Sarge didn’t look at them, and everyone shared another look.

Simmons was the first to recover. “Okay, so… what’s your last name?”

“Huh?” Sarge asked, as if he didn’t hear them, and Simmons glanced nervously at Grif, who nodded at him in encouragement.

“I said, uh, what’s your last name? Is it Sarge?”

“No, it’s not.”

“… Well then, what is it?”

“Power."

Wash was the first to catch on to the fact that he was hiding something, but he couldn’t piece it together. “Max Power,” he repeated, testing it out to determine why it sounded so wrong, and after a beat there was a chorus of groans.

“Max fucking Power?” Grif demanded. “Seriously? Of all the stupid names you could come up with.”

“Wow.” Tucker sounded the word out.

“I’m just glad it’s not Max,” Simmons admitted. “That name does not suit you, Sarge.”

“You’re right. M’ real name is Rambo.”

This time, the hesitation the group shared at his response fell to the wayside quickly, and Grif nodded.

“Alright, I’ll bite. That seems legit. Rambo what?”

“Rambo Steel,” Sarge said gleefully.

“Sarge!” Simmons whined. “We’re serious! It’s about time we knew, isn’t it? I mean, I’m leaving soon, you’re leaving soon… it’s for the best that we know. What if we want to find you afterwards?”

“That’s not gunna give him any incentive,” Tucker snickered. “Come on Sarge, what else you got?”

“Flex Kickass.”

Grif snorted, but Wash fought down a smile that he eventually hid behind his hand.

“Blade Danger.”

Simmons groaned. “Okay, stop.”

“Wait, I’m just getting started! Stag Buckly.”

Grif shook his head. “That’s just bad.”

“How dare you! That’s a majestic name!”

“Bad,” Grif said again.

“How about a strong name, like John Force?”

“It’s better than the other ones,” Donut admitted. “But you don’t seem like a John, Sarge!”

“Bold Blastfist. Beast Rusty. Fightmaster—”

“Okay, stop,” Grif cut in. “I’m done. I was only brought here for __one__ reason, and that was my damned curiosity. I’m still not happy, so I’m seriously leaving.”

“But I’m not done yet! I’ve been thinking these up for years! __The Undertaker__. _”_

“ _ _That’s__  a __movie,__ and __I__ am __out__. Simmons, for the love of god, please join me.”

Simmons didn’t hesitate, because he’d picked up the abrupt seriousness in Grif’s voice. They both stood, and Grif grabbed the remaining food from his tray and stuffed it in his mouth as Sarge rubbed thoughtfully at his facial hair.

“Flint Striker,” he added, rolling the name over on his tongue.

“Fuck off,” Grif said, around his mouthful of food, and then he was gone.

Sarge nodded to himself, pleased. “Which one do you think made him leave? Whichever one it was, I want to go by that. Should be enough to keep Grif away from me.”

“It’ll be enough to keep everyone away from you,” Tucker sighed, and turned to Wash. “That could have gone worse.”

“I’m a fan of Stag Buckly. And it’s only a few letters off from Sarge, so Caboose shouldn’t get too confused. Hey, Caboose!”

“Yes, Mr. Buckly sir?”

Sarge nodded again, satisfied.

“No, not happening,” Tucker cut in. “Donut, tell him it’s stupid.”

“Well, if Sarge can change his name…” Donut frowned. “Victor King. Hmm, no, that’s not right. Too butch. Prince, Princely… Princely something.”

“Victor, hey?” Sarge rubbed at his chin. “Victor King, too. No, that’s not bad at all, Donut. The name of a winner, if I ever heard one. Caboose, call me Victor.”

“Victor,” Caboose said, obligingly.

Sarge debated it, then shook his head. “No good. Stag Buckly it is.”

Tucker stared at him, then dropped his head into his hands. “Never thought I’d say this, but Grif had the right idea,” he murmured to Wash. “We shoulda left.”

“Maybe something with flowers,” Donut mused aloud. “I want a nice name that suits me. Princely Rose?”

Sarge frowned. “Alright, that’s enough for today.”

“Thank god,” Tucker muttered. “I’m actually hungry enough to want to stick around and finishthis meal for once, and you guys are notmaking it easy.”

“It would help if you ate more and talked less,” Wash supplied.

Tucker rolled his eyes but obeyed, and Donut made a soft __aww__  sound. They both steadfastly ignored that, because for once neither of them __could__ say anything against it. The memories of earlier played on their minds, and Wash knew he wasn’t the only one sneaking the occasional sideward glance.

It wasn’t long before Tucker finished his dinner and pushed back his tray with a clatter, leaning back to fold his arms over his stomach. “That hits the spot. Nothing like ravenous hunger to make you appreciate the goop you’re being served.”

“It’s not too bad tonight,” Donut pointed out. “The mashed potatoes are only slightly goopy.”

“Whatever,” Tucker blew off. “I’m done.”

“You’re not going to stick around?” Donut frowned.

“Nah. I’m outta here. Anyone want to come with?”

He raised his eyebrows specifically at Wash. Sarge grumbled something into his dinner, but Caboose perked up.

“I would love to!” he accepted graciously. “We can work on our new names together. I never liked Tucker. Maybe you can be Caboose too!”

“Not happening,” Tucker said, but he stood up and gave enough space to let Caboose stand next to him. “Come on then. I guess you’re better than nothing.”

“Aw, thanks Tucker,” Caboose said, cheerfully. “I like you better than nothing too. But only by a little bit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, let’s hit the showers. I feel like getting into my cell nice and early tonight, hey Wash?”

Wash knew what he was insinuating, and it wasn’t what he would have liked. He could hope that they could get side-tracked considering Tucker’s usual distractibility, but the universe usually wasn’t that kind to him for too long.

And Tucker’s distractibility was currently his distractibility, too. Too much had happened today, and anything more was probably asking for trouble. It was probably far too soon, and they hadn’t quite sorted things out yet — but none of that stopped his mind from drifting to it, and when he ducked his head away and focused on the table, he heard Tucker laugh quietly. Then he left, and Wash remainded to face Sarge and Donut alone. Donut gave him a look that was undeniably delight, and Wash flushed at the implications as he stood to leave. 

 

“To __talk__ ,” he hissed to Donut, but it didn’t diminish the broad smile on Donut’s face in the slightest.

“You went awfully red, Wash,” Donut said to his back.

It wasn’t a conversation he could gain anything out of, so he left. His only mild comfort was that, like Tucker and Caboose, he’d left his tray sitting on the table, and he was petty enough to feel better knowing that Donut would likely be the one to clean it up. Wash knew it wasn’t his fault that he was so curious, but when everything was so unsure, so up in the air, having a certain someone trying to stick his nose into it __really__  didn’t help matters.

Not when it involved __Tucker__ , who rarely handled things with any finesse. Donut of all people knew that, but like all of them, he was stubborn, so Wash knew he wasn’t going to let them get away easy — especially not after he’d been so excited about their friendship. Or more, Wash mused. Donut had always been __overly__ enthusiastic about them; Wash just hadn’t realised why before.

His thoughts took another turn as he headed towards the shower block, drifting from the nicer side of things to the other parts, everything he'd been trying to put off thinking about; that he'd have to find Felix soon, try to deescalate the situation, and convince Tucker that teaching him to fight was  _not_ an option.

The thought made him feel queasy to his stomach, his mind unwittingly conjuring up images of Tucker’s face under his fists faster than he could block them from his mind. He swallowed, hard, and tried to push it from his mind as he entered the block. A shower would clear his mind, at least temporarily — he'd grown used to showering alone.

He was in the line for several minutes when someone called his name.

__“Washingto_ n!”_

He jumped and spun, nearly knocking into a boy who’d gotten too close, and narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar face that was smiling at him. Quickly, Wash gauged the distance, and the several feet between them gave him enough confidence to stand his ground. From here, at least, he could assess the situation. With one glance over his shoulder to make sure nobody was behind him, he stepped a hesitant foot closer.

“Who are you?” he asked, warily, and the boy’s smile faltered.

“Oh, they didn’t introduce me?” He immediately sounded petulant. “I’m Doc!”

Recognition registered, but Wash didn’t let his guard down. He gave the boy a once over — his dark skin, short cropped hair and brown eyes were familiar, and Wash realised that he’d seen him around several times before.

“Doc."

“Yeah!” Doc closed the gap between them without a second thought. “I treated you that one time, remember? I can remember all of my patients, don’t worry.”

He seemed oblivious to Wash’s evident tension, but thankfully, he made no further move that would have set Wash more on edge. He simply gave him another broad smile, reminiscent of Donut, and waited patiently.

“Right,” Wash said, at a loss for words. There was a beat, before his eyes narrowed, and he looked at Doc in a different light. “I’ve seen you before. In the gym.”

Doc nodded, as if that meant nothing to him, and Wash realised he might not have understood the meaning behind it. Before he could reiterate, or simply leave before the situation could deteriorate, Doc responded.

“I treat everybody equally,” he said, and leaned in. “Even the ones who you might not consider deserving.”

Wash blinked, disconcerted, but Doc returned to his lighthearted smile and gestured to the line ahead of them. “I feel it’s best to keep neutral in all scenarios,” he informed him, as if he was bestowing some great piece of wisdom. “I think everyone deserves a chance, no matter how mean or nasty. Now, shall we?”

He didn’t seem bothered by Wash’s evident hesitation, or his reluctance to join him, but that in itself spurred Wash on enough to let him step back into the line.

“I see you’re all healed up from your previous injuries,” Doc commented, as he stepped in beside him. “Glad to see another successful patient. I hope you’ve been keeping yourself out of trouble.”

Wash frowned, reminded of what he’d mentioned earlier. “That was a long time ago. And I don’t believe __you__ ever saw me.”

“I’m a busy guy," Doc shrugged. "I was, uh… treating somebody at the time. Anyway, it’s clear it worked, so I’ll be having no criticisms of my treatment methods, thank you.”

“TLC,” Wash recalled, and a faint smile played on Doc’s lips. “And a hug?”

“I have the same method for all minor injuries."

“Right,” Wash said, somewhat dryly. “No offense, but I don’t think any credit for my survival should go to you.”

Doc shrugged again. “It’s an unappreciated career choice.”

“I don’t think that’s why,” Wash began, but that was all he managed before they were ushered down the long corridor with the few other boys around them.

“Oh, we missed Andersmith,” Doc said unhappily, and gestured to a boy who’d been stopped before he could enter. “He’s wonderful at getting my back.”

Wash bit at his lip and chose not to respond to that, busying himself with removing his clothes and ducking for the stall at the very end.

“Someone’s in a rush,” Doc said, as he entered the stall next to him.

Wash didn’t respond to that either. He __wasn’t__ in a rush — he was just used to moving through this quickly. He'd been here without Tucker more often than not lately, and he supposed it showed. He just preferred to move quickly, because that's how he was, and because he preferred to give himself as much time as possible before the first headcounts began. 

Missing another one wasn’t something that would be on his agenda for the rest of his life.

For several minutes, he lost himself in the memories of that night, the blood red lights and ear piercing sirens, the fear, the chaos. Felix, coming to his rescue. Guiding him on what to do, keeping him safe. Solitary, and the darkness that had crawled through him and felt like it was eating him alive.

How he’d thought about Tucker, even then, to get him through the night without losing his mind.

He shivered. No, it wasn’t something he wanted to relive. He had to admit, though, even with the memories sending shudders down his spine, that he’d gotten one thing out of it — even if his friendship with Felix was more trouble than it was worth.

More trouble than it was worth, he considered, and he swallowed, hard. That was the reason, wasn't it, that he was planning to see him again at all? Not just for his sake, but for Felix’s, to keep them both safe and give Wash a way out of the corner he was in.

If he ended his friendship with Felix, he could rectify things with Tucker with the least possible damage done. He knew that if he tried explaining it without ending it first, he wouldn’t have a chance, and his heart ached so hard at the thought that he didn’t even consider it.

He had Tucker, finally, and had stabilised things enough without lying that they were, on the surface, far better than they’d been before. They’d closed part of the gap between them and created a bridge unlike what they’d ever expected, and Wash would do anything to avoid tearing that down again.

Even now, the thought of returning to Tucker in his cell, to _ _just__ Tucker, made his heartbeat quicken. He didn’t want the conversation that he knew Tucker was set on, that was true, but the fact was that even if Tucker wanted to talk about that until the morning lights turned on, Wash would be content just being able to be near him. To watch him, and when the lights went off, to know that he was there. Tucker had that effect on him, always had, but now he could appreciate it in a way he’d always prevented himself from before.

Abruptly, the water cut off. He was left standing there, unmoving.

Things could change so suddenly. In a heartbeat, it could all go wrong, a fact that he’d lived with his entire life and had kept him on the borderline between survival and death.

Keeping his friendship with Felix was unfair on Tucker, a wedge between them that could be catastrophic, held only in place by more betrayal and secrecy. But Felix had helped him, had befriended him, and done everything he could to keep their friendship even when Wash hadn’t been fair, hadn’t given back, had fought it from the start.

And now Felix was in trouble because of him. Abandoning him now was horrible, and Wash felt no small degree of guilt for it, especially when it was his fault in the first place. Felix had risked a lot to be his friend, and had suffered for it.

Wash stood, letting the water drip from his body and onto the floor, and wondered why everything about __him__ felt like it was more trouble than it was worth.


	29. shining light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been too long to expect many of you to still be around, but if you are, feel free to drop a comment and let me know. you don't know how often i've gone through the comments just to get inspired again. <3
> 
> i promise regular updates until this is finished. 
> 
> also: this is basically dedicated to [noneeyewithleftyork](http://noneeyewithleftyork.tumblr.com/) and [Yin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Yin/pseuds/Yin/) for their recent and ongoing support. also to every single reader, old and new, because obviously this wouldn't be possible without you. thanks for sticking around.

_Because it was_.

It was, wasn’t it? _He_ was, wasn’t he — more trouble than he was worth?

For all the secrets held from him, he knew the ones he harboured were the ones that mattered more than anything. Knew that, unequivocally, while nothing Tucker could do would drive him away, it was his actions that held that power. His decisions.

His _choices _,__  like the choice to hold onto Felix when he knew what it meant. He seemed to like playing with fire, couldn’t avoid it, because every choice he made took him closer to the flames. This time, it was Felix’s face that peered out at him, eyes stony and unforgiving as he stared out at him. Burning.

And he’d been in that place, once. His world had threatened to crumble down around him, he’d tasted his first encounter with betrayal, and here he was now. Going behind Tucker’s back, lying to him. It couldn’t last.

Doc’s voice was gentle but firm, and it broke its way into Wash’s thoughts. “Not much of a talker, huh.”

Washington’s world expanded around him until he was standing in front of the bench again, where he’d been gripping his towel, where Doc was speaking, darting quick glances at him politely as if Wash hadn’t just been staring into the middle distance, ignoring him.

“You know, I used to be like that. But I’m sure I can get you to open up.”

Wash didn’t respond, still trying to remove the image of Felix amongst the flames from his mind, until he realised they were late to exit. Together, with Doc at his side, they left, and he could feel Doc’s gaze on him, watchful and heavier than it should have been, but when he glanced up to meet his eyes Doc was scanning the room.

“Yep,” he said, as if Washington had responded, “I was a quiet one, believe me. Never said a word. Well, I said _some_ words, let’s be realistic. Nobody can never say anything. Okay, some people probably could, but I’m definitely not one of them. Here’s looking at you, Wash.”

His glance at Wash was punctuated with a laugh, and a measuring look behind his glasses.

“Right,” Wash said, simply, and Doc gave him a smile.

“If you ever want to learn to open up like I did, here’s some advice: Kamasutra. _Great_ book. Really fantastic. Then, learn to tap into your chakra levels and really understand yourself — it’ll be like you’re a whole new person! It’s _crazy._ Trust me, try looking into it. In fact, I can help you with it right now. We could start off with some yoga?”

Whether it was unintentional or carefully crafted, Doc’s offer wasn’t one that could be met with silence. Wash blew out a deep breath, trying to dispel the uneasiness that had crept over him, and shook his head.

“No. Thank you. I’m kind of busy,” he started, but he didn’t get a chance to begin before Doc’s hand closed around his arm.

“No, I insist! No need to be shy. I’ve been warned you’re a tough nut to crack, but don’t you worry. If Donut asks me to teach a good friend of his yoga, I’m not going to be the one to say no. The pout on that boy, honestly. Now—”

Wash’s pulse had begun to race, because Doc’s words _meant something_. Not what he was actually saying — there was a sudden shift, a deceptive tightness to the grip around his arm, an intentional heaviness to his words that left Wash with the feeling that whatever he was missing was important.

“What— _ _”__

“Alright, alright,” Doc interrupted, his smile still fixed broadly on his face. “I’ll just walk you back. But if I haven’t convinced you by then not to partake in some serious soul soothing, then I’ll have to look at pursuing a different career!”

His tone was still cheerful, his words casual and friendly, but there was something to it that rang in Wash with a careful insistency, telling him that something was wrong, off, not quite right; that there was something going on that Doc was aware of.

Doc started walking, and Wash’s feet were pulling him in his wake before he’d realised it. In moments he was at Doc’s side, his long stride bringing him up beside him quickly, where his jaw worked at words that didn’t have a chance to come out.

“Have you ever done pilates, Wash?” Doc asked, before he could speak. “I’d guess not, but it’s best to never assume. You know what they say, assume makes an ass out of you and me! It should really be you and I, but who am I to question a fun rhyme like that? Anyway, if you haven’t, yoga is definitely a great starting point. Stretching constantly is necessary for a limber body and flexible limbs, for whatever your reasons are! I can’t recommend it enough.”

They’d only made it several metres and already Wash was wondering whether he’d made a mistake. Doc’s prattling was innocuous and cheerful, and the further they got with no sign or indication that he’d meant anything other than what he’d been saying at all, the more Wash’s sudden sense of urgency faded, leaving behind only the uncertain insistency that something wasn’t right.

“Doc,” he finally interrupted, and his mouth was drier than he’d noticed. “What was — just before, with—”

“The yoga!” Doc nodded. “Sorry, of course. I didn’t explain to you properly what you can expect. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe enough in my hands, I _promise._  Now, for a beginner, there’s very simple poses, like…”

Again. The gut feeling, so blissfully certain but so painfully shortlived. It was enough. Wash kept his mouth shut, and carefully monitored the direction they headed until he was sure they were moving back to his cell. They arrived quickly, Doc matching his hurried stride with surprising ease.

“How do you ever get a word out of him?” he asked Tucker as Wash stepped into the cell.

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even know, dude. Luck. Positions of the stars. God finally heeding my prayers. Fuck knows. Where’d you find him?”

“We went to showers together,” Wash cut in, before Doc could speak. “ _Thank you,_ Tucker. Now—”

“Okay, grumpy. Christ, do I even want to know what happened?”

“Wash is kindly letting me teach him yoga,” Doc responded. “I thought it would be good stress relief.” He darted a look at Wash and caught his eyes for a split second before he turned back to Tucker. “He seems to be under quite a bit of stress. And for good reason, too.”

Tucker’s eyes had drifted to Wash’s, and it was only now that he met them.

“Is that so?” Tucker asked, and he moved to close the distance between them, moving past Doc without a second glance. “Yeah, you’re not wrong. Wash? What’s up?”

At the question, Wash broke his gaze and looked over Tucker’s shoulder to the boy now standing against the wall. As if reading his mind, Doc frowned.

“Well, it was pretty strange, if I do say so myself. Why _were_ those two boys watching you?”

A beat of silence, before Tucker whirled back to face Doc. “ _Watching him?_ Oh, no, dude—  _who? _”__

“Uh, Ripley and Anderson,” Doc shrugged. “I mean, I just thought it was weird. I try not to judge people, but I know who’s trouble around here, and since Wash and I had become such fast friends I thought I’d better… Uh, Wash?”

His attention had joined Tucker’s, fixated on Wash, who in turn was staring, jaw clenched, right at Doc. There was a faint ringing in his ears as it fell into place, the clear signs and connections that had been blindingly obvious fitting together in front of him neatly, so neatly, and yet Wash hadn’t put it together himself.

 _Ah,_ he seemed to think, distantly. _Of course._ Of course he was being watched. After all, hadn’t that been everything he was afraid of? Hadn’t he expected it, been beyond paranoid because of it, _known_ about it?

Then why, after all that, was it still a surprise? Why did it feel like someone had just yanked the ground out from beneath his feet and sent him falling?

“Hold on,” Tucker demanded, although nobody had said anything. “ _Those_ kids? Did anything happen? I swear, if anything happened, I’m going to fucking—”

“No, not at all,” Doc hurried to break in. “You know I don’t like violence Tucker, so please curb your language.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Tucker grumbled, but he let it go as he crossed to stand in front of Wash. “Dude, what happened?”

Doc just shrugged when Wash didn’t answer. “Like I said, I just thought it was weird.”

“Yeah, well it is pretty fucking weird. Wanna shed any light, Wash?”

Tucker’s voice was insistent, cutting into the haze that was settling around Wash. The world trembled around him, and he forced himself to breathe. A moment later, he found his voice, and he blew past Tucker’s questions to ask his own to Doc.

“Who?”

The simple question must have given more than he’d intended away, because the two boys in front of him shared a look before they turned to him again. Doc got to his feet. “Ripley and Anderson? The tall one, and the muscle power guy who looked like he’s never left the gym since he got here?”

No response. Wash stared blankly, trying to conjure an image of them to mind.

“Did you even _see_ them?” Doc questioned, and his tone sent a shiver of displeasure shooting down Wash’s spine. “I mean, didn’t you look around?”

The shiver spread through him until he was almost shaking, fighting down the urge to clench his hands into fist as he stepped past Tucker to look Doc straight in the eyes. He forced himself to breathe out through his flared nostrils before he responded, but even then, it didn’t take away all the fury underlying his voice.

“I’m _always_  looking around,” he said, his voice dangerously low, and as if to prove his point, he darted a tight look back behind him, to the empty cell opposite his. “ _Constantly._ You have no idea.”

 _But he hadn’t been then, had he?_ He’d let his guard down. He’d missed something.

He was too busy swallowing down the abrupt anger to realise that he’d probably said too much. Doc didn’t seem perturbed by his sudden aggression, simply pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded to himself as if that made perfect sense.

“That probably explains it then,” he said, before either of them could speak. “It’s easy to overlook things when you’re looking out for everything.”

As quickly as it had struck, the anger faded, and Wash was left blinking in shock at the blinding simplicity and truth of the statement.

“What?” he finally managed, his voice faint to his own ears.

“Sure, it happens,” Doc said, looking at him in concern. “You can’t see _everything._ No human can. You’ll wear yourself out like that.” He waited for a moment, considering, before he patted Wash on the shoulder. “And you certainly look like you’ve worn yourself out,” he chided. “Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, I hope you have a plan to get yourself out.”

Wash didn’t flinch away, suddenly transfixed on the realisation that occurred to him. The niggling thought wore at him that Doc, in mere moments, had already figured out far more than he was comfortable with — had already figured out that he was in deep, with only a few remarks and some careful looks.

He shuddered and withdrew into himself, suddenly aware of how wild-eyed he was in the dim reflection of Doc’s glasses.

“Yoga helps,” Doc offered, when Wash said nothing more. “I was serious about that offer, you know. But if it’s not your thing, well, there’s plenty of ways to clear the mind. You just need to reduce all the clutter, so you can see what you’re really looking for.”

Tucker glanced between the two of them, his features drawn together in a frown. “Uh?”

“I can tell you exhaust yourself,” Doc said, still speaking to him, his words softer and far gentler than Wash had expected. “Give yourself a break!”

For a moment, Wash wanted to laugh, a bubbling, unhappy sensation in this throat. His shake of the head was quick, covering the way he’d blanched, and his voice was as bleak as the cloud that drew heavily over him at the turn of events.

“I don’t get breaks,” he said, simply.

Doc responded with a head shake of his own. “Not with that attitude,” he pointed out. “Step one: stop being such a downer! Open up the curtains and let your sunshine in your life! And learn to enjoy the little things.”

At his last comment, what he was saying finally made a little more sense, and Wash’s eyes darted to Tucker. Slowly, Doc nodded.

“Enjoy the little things,” he said again, before he shot him a wink. “Seriously, I’ll be back sometime soon to teach you yoga. Until then, keep yourself out of trouble. If you can’t, you know who to look for!”

His departure seemed far too cheery, and Wash shifted with uncertainty. He had so much to think about, but—

“What the fuck was that?” Tucker demanded, when Doc was gone.  

Wash wished he could give a response, but he barely knew himself. He sighed, untensed enough to unwrap his arms from around himself, and moved to sit heavily on his bunk. Tucker followed without hesitation, and he observed Wash’s grim expression with some alarm.

“You were actually being watched?” Tucker asked, a question that wasn’t quite a question, words that drilled themselves into Wash’s brain.

_Apparently._

The first tangible proof that he’d been under watch, that somebody had been looking at him, and he hadn’t seen it. Someone else had. A thought struck him, and he glanced warily up at Tucker.

“Who exactly _is_ Doc?”

“Huh?”

“Who is he? You seemed unsurprised to see him with me, and why — I don’t understand why he would help me if he doesn’t know me.”

“Well, for starters, Doc is like, the doc. He helps people when they’re in trouble, so yeah, seeing him walk in here with you was basically like, no surprise. Come on, don’t—”

“He knew where to take me.”

Without being aware of what he was doing, he was searching, looking for an explanation or any reasoning that would allow him to accept the situation. The idea, the _truth_ that he’d been watched, oblivious, unaware of it, and someone else had seen it — someone who had chosen to help him?

“It doesn’t add up,” he muttered, when Tucker’s eyebrows lowered into a frown.

 _“Wash_. Everyone knows you’re my — roommate. Of course he knew where to bring you, he knows where my cell is, so that’s just… Look, it’s not something I’d ever thought I’d say, but Doc’s not just a friend, he’s _my_ friend. I get that you’re worried, but don’t like, be all mistrustful of Doc. Everyone here will vouch for him. He’s helped us all out in some way or another.”

“In exchange for what?”

Tucker stared at him, worry shining out from the depths of his dark eyes. “In exchange for— in exchange for _nothing,_  dude! He doesn’t get paid for helping people. He does it because he likes to help, I guess. I dunno, he’s a pacifist. Ask him.”

Wash shook his head. “I find it unlikely that someone would be willing to help if they truly get nothing in return.”

Yet, when he thought about it, nothing about Doc himself had really set any alarms off inside him. He was just desperate, searching, even if it was in the wrong place.

“Wash…”

Tucker’s voice held something, something difficult to identify, and strange enough to get Wash’s attention through his racing thoughts.

“Okay, I admit” he said slowly, when Wash looked up at him, “I kind of thought you were a little paranoid when you were explaining this shit to me before. I mean, I know Locus is a threat, I don’t doubt that so don’t get me wrong, it’s just… I don’t know. You said nothing had happened.”

Wash only tensed up further at his words, and Tucker ran a hand through his hair in frustration. There was a pause, where they both wanted to reach out to each other, but Tucker looked too worried and Wash looked too tense so they both kept their distance, just a little bit; just enough.

“I don’t know,” Wash said, and it was so quiet it was nearly a whisper. Something in his tone, in his words, in the way they seemed to pull themselves reluctantly from his throat in a seething, frustrated hiss, made Tucker pause. “I don’t _know._ I think I’m missing too much. I’m not seeing enough, Tucker, there’s obviously something that I’m just — not seeing.”

“Hold on, you can’t just blame yourself—”

“Of course I can! Someone else saw it when I didn’t, Tucker. Who knows how long that’s been going on for? The reason that I can’t shake the feeling, that I can’t fucking get it together and feel safe enough to come back, because of something like _this?_ ”

A frustrated groan escaped him, and he pulled sharply at his hair.

“Wash—”

“Doc was right. I’ve been trying too hard to see, but clearly I’ve been missing something right in front of me.”

“Listen—”

“Someone was _right there,_ watching me, and I had no idea. _ _”__

How long had he been watched for? How many times had he thought he was okay, wrapped up in the illusion of safety when they’d been watching him, laughing at him? How often had he been within arm’s reach of danger, within a hand’s reach, been _staring it in the face?_

“Wash!” Tucker called, tugging at his hands, and Wash realised he’d fisted them tightly in his hair so sharply it should have hurt. It didn’t, because he didn’t care, couldn’t think about that when he had to focus on the fact that someone else had seen it.

Someone had seen what he couldn’t see, and now he knew he’d been right, his suspicions proven, but he couldn’t even find an inch of relief that he _hadn’t_ been driving himself downwards in a paranoid fear, because it meant everything he’d been afraid of was true.

Just when he’d been beginning to even entertain the thought that it wasn’t as bad, that he was overthinking it, that he could relax—

He had proof, but someone else had seen it.

When Tucker pulled his hands down, they both stared at them, then at the way his hands immediately tightened into fists so hard his knuckles went white.

“Wash,” Tucker said again, but this time it was a whisper, and Wash barely heard him.

His eyes didn’t want to fixate on anything, but he didn’t want to squeeze them shut. Would it even matter if he did?

“Wash, look at me,” Tucker was saying, his voice dim over the roar of blood rushing in Wash’s ears.

At some point, his fists had gone to either side of his head again and he’d pulled his knees up to his chest. He’d barely felt Tucker’s hands pulling at him before, but now he felt the warmth of his palms on the top of his knuckles, heard his voice calling his name, gently.

Slowly, it seeped into him, a thin blanket tugged over some of the overwhelming cold inside him. Eventually, he pulled his hands away from his head and opened his eyes, and Tucker’s worried look met his.

“It’s okay, Wash,” he heard, dimly, but he didn’t respond. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

He was glad he’d suddenly lost his voice, because he felt a hysterical laugh build up in himself. That shocked him more than anything, and all at once, he released his tension. He nearly collapsed, only kept himself sitting upright on sheer force of will alone.

Tucker shifted to sit next to him, in an attempt to give him more support. Wash raised his head to look at him, but what he could see where Tucker had been only moments before made him stop. At some point, the cell doors had closed, and no doubt guards would be passing through shortly for headchecks. That wasn’t what caught his attention. What he’d seen, the only thing that could have taken his attention from Tucker and the whirling thoughts inside him.

Felix, staring at him, his eyes ringed with black; watching Wash in shock.

It was too much. Wash closed his eyes and collapsed into Tucker’s side. The world whisked itself away into dreams of crackling fire and searing heat; Tucker’s voice, faint and worried, calling his name over and over again.

* * *

 

When he woke the next morning to the slam of the cell door opening, he was scared.

It was like his first days back in the centre again, the same swirling fear and confusion enveloping him, shrouding his mind in a fog that had him stumbling to his feet and pressing his back against the wall before he could think twice.

It took several moments, but he finally opened his eyes, the lights seeming to blind him, but as he blinked himself into recognition, he realised that the lights had been on for a while. The longer he stood there, the further the realisation sunk in that he’d been on the verge of awake since they’d turned on. Some part of himself had fought against the waking world, determined to stay in the sanctuary of sleep a little longer.

When the door had opened, the last of his illusion of safety had shattered, and it had forced him so quickly into reality that he hadn’t had any time to orient himself. He’d acted on muscle memory, despite all the time that had passed since those days, and that fact pleased him. A tiny sliver of hope rooted itself into his mind, centred around the thought that if he’d kept this reaction, there could be more, too.

Tucker’s voice rang down from above. “Haven’t seen that in a while.”

Wash nodded, but didn’t say anything. After a moment, he relaxed his stance, consciously watching and cataloguing his movements as he lowered his hands from in front of him and leant against the wall rather than pressed himself against it. Tucker watched him, then climbed slowly down from his bed and onto the floor.

They looked towards the first boys beginning the walk towards the mess hall for breakfast, and then Tucker glanced at Wash.

“Hungry?”

Wash nodded, but Tucker didn’t let him off that easy.

“Want to tell me what the fuck’s that was all about first?” he asked, in a way that didn’t leave any room for argument, and Wash repressed a sigh. “I mean, I understand, but I also sorta want to make sure I’m not missing anything. You haven’t done __that__ in a while.”

That made sense. It was surprising, but then, Wash wondered why it should be. So much had changed between them lately — why wouldn’t this just be one more thing to add to the list?

“It’s a good thing,” he said simply. “That was muscle memory, Tucker. It means I’ve still got a hold on things from before.”

It was clearly the wrong thing to say, because Tucker shot forward with a frown.

“Woah, woah, no. How is that _good,_ Wash? You from before was— you were hard to deal with, man. I didn’t know what you were thinking, or what you were going to do.” He paused, looking at him hard. “Is that what you mean?”

Wash sighed, and guilt wormed at his heart at the fact that Tucker really didn’t understand. “My reflexes,” he explained, shifting to face him full on. “I’ve been… worried about them lately. How I would fare in a fight, but not only that now, but everything leading up to that. I always relied on my instincts, but how can I trust them now?”

“Wash,” Tucker tried, and his voice had a tinge of desperation to it. “You missed _one_ thing.”

“No, Tucker. There’s no way to see how much I’ve missed.”

Tucker was quiet. That was fine, because it gave Wash a chance to lapse into thought again, but after a minute he realised it was wearing at him. Tucker wasn’t facing him, was looking away, and it was strange enough that Wash gave in and called his name softly.

Tucker turned to face him, and he didn’t hesitate to speak. “You have to stop going places alone.”

Wash didn’t blink, didn’t externally react, but he resisted the urge to grit his teeth as he realised Tucker had set him up for that.

“I mean it. No arguments. What better possible solution could we come up with for this? Need a pair of eyes? Here’s your guy. I’m not letting you do this alone, Wash.”

“That’s not…” he began, but his doubt slipped back into the forefront of his mind and established itself there once again. “Some places,” he finally allowed, but Tucker didn’t seem content with that.

“Showers, definitely,” he pressed, and Wash eventually nodded. “You’re obviously not alone when you sit with us to eat, or early morning and late night, but that still leaves a lot of time left during the day for you to be caught out alone.”

“Not caught out, Tucker,” Wash said, and he couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that crept through him.

Tucker shrugged that off and continued. “All of school time, rec hour, and exercise hour,” he recited, as he if he was checking things off a list. “I think we can narrow that down, Wash, don’t you?”

“Tucker,” Wash started, because although Tucker hadn’t breathed a word of it, Wash __knew__ the topic from before was still on his mind.

“Just keeping your best interests in mind,” Tucker said, slyly, before he faltered. “And fuck, is it so bad that I don’t want you to disappear again? Yesterday was like, one of the most confusing days of my life, but it ended up good because I finally got through to you. Like, I finally got you to talk, and stay with me long enough to actually mean something before you disappeared again. And, you know…”

Wash let his lips tug up into a smile, and for once, he welcomed the brief reprieve from his thoughts. “I know what, Tucker?” he asked, innocently, and Tucker looked quickly around the empty walkway ahead before he grabbed Wash’s hand.

“You _know_ ,” he responded, and gave it a squeeze before letting go. “Asshole. Now come on. I’ve got a day to spend with you, and fucked if I’m going to let anything else get in the way.”

* * *

Wash had planned to talk.

He’d planned a lengthy, calm discussion, on _his_  basis and directed _by him,_  not ruled by Tucker’s whims, demands and desires. He’d planned a relaxed, easy atmosphere, without stress and without tension, and yet the second they’d stepped into the unused cell in the mostly empty D block, everything Wash planned fell apart in the best possible way.

It started with the accidental brushing of his hand against Tucker’s as they walked, the electric sensation that buzzed and soared every time they touched, settling into him and chasing away any thoughts of Felix and the mess he was in straight from his mind.

It continued when Tucker’s gaze kept lingering on him. Not just on his eyes, but on his body, on his hands and his arms and his face as he talked and as he __moved,__  Tucker watched him, with something that made Wash glow from the inside even as it made him more conscious of every movement than he ever was outside of a fight.

It deepened when they drew closer to the cell and the privacy it offered. Far away from prying eyes and shrouded in enough secrecy that the atmosphere, built of things that Wash couldn’t quite identify and was too distracted by Tucker to even attempt to, thickened and grew until the air around them was charged.

And it came to an abrupt climax the moment the door closed behind them, and Wash pulled Tucker into his arms.

He was glad that Tucker had been expecting it, that he was evidently on the same wavelength as Wash — could even go so far as to say that he’d _created_ it, shaped the wavelength with every look and touch and unspoken thought between them — because he didn’t resist or flinch or hesitate as Wash’s hands closed around his shoulders and pulled them together.

But _glad_ didn’t even begin to cover the overwhelming wave of relief and happiness that surged through him when it became clear that Tucker wanted to kiss him as badly as he did. The moment their lips met, Wash felt everything slip from his mind and leave him, and he let out a strangled noise against Tucker’s lips.

Tucker sighed into it, and one of his hands cupped itself around Wash’s neck while the other fisted itself loosely in his hair as they connected. And then he was kissing him, kissing Tucker, and everything that it was, that it meant, that it _could be—_

He lost himself in the racing thoughts of his brain, flying by too fast for him to comprehend. Tucker was so distracting, so soft beneath him, so warm and sweet and everything that Wash had yearned for. A polar opposite to everything he’d ever experienced, to the lows of his life that he’d never had highs for.

Tucker mouthed his name and Wash dragged his lips across Tucker’s jaw and it was _good._

Every place that Tucker’s body connected with him left Wash burning. It was possibly the only type of _overwhelmed_ that he could ever appreciate, that he could ever want, that he could ever need. It sent his brain racing and set his nerves on fire but it was that fire of _good_ , a slow flame that consumed him and seemed to burn away every bad thought and feeling that had seeped into his bones.

He sunk gratefully into it, and understood why he’d had to suffer through everything in his life so much if it meant that the one good thing he was given was Tucker. Not only did he give him a middle ground to stand on, to pull himself up from the rock bottom, Tucker gave him wings and let Wash explore the skies.

* * *

 They ended up on the bed, lying next to each other. They’d broken off in mutual, unspoken agreement as they’d lowered themselves onto it, with one last soft, lingering kiss before they’d settled.

Words had disappeared between them, vanished into the warm atmosphere that had enveloped the room along with any expectations, doubts, or hesitations that had ruled over them before.

It was like a new kind of freedom, and Wash found that he couldn’t get enough of it.

He couldn’t get enough of Tucker, either; of this new side that he’d ached for before, when he had the barest idea _ _,__  when he’d only been catching the merest glimpses of it. Now, it felt like he had everything he could have asked for and more, in the way Tucker was trailing his hand along Wash’s arm, watching the goose bumps rise up and fade away every time he brushed his fingers lightly by. He seemed captivated by it, and compelled to run the same tracks time and time again.

And Wash… Wash was content to let him. He was more than content — it sent shivers through him, a course of emotions that he didn’t need to break apart simply because they were good, but also because it represented a shift in everything, a dispersal of that inbuilt tension, the hesitancy that had plagued them before and shadowed their every waking move.

There was still some, but it was accepted, almost welcomed, a mutual line of agreement drawn where they felt their comfort zones join. It was nothing compared to before, and before was nothing compared to now, when one of Wash’s legs was pressed flush with Tucker’s, Tucker’s head against his chest, and they could just __be.__

After a while, Tucker stopped running his fingers along Wash’s arm and tapped at it instead.

“Where’d this one come from?”

Wash blinked himself out of his daze and angled his head down to see Tucker poking a slightly raised scar on Wash’s forearm with his nail. “What?”

“The scar. What’s it from?”

“Uh. I’m not sure,” he admitted, frowning down at it. “It’s old, so it could have been anything. Why?”

“Hmm. Just wondering.”

Tucker rolled his neck but didn’t take his eyes away, and a moment later he tapped another scar, just below, that intersected with the bottom of the first one he’d drawn attention to. “This one?”

“Uh… Same thing.”

Finally, Tucker shifted his eyes up to Wash’s and gave him a look of exasperation that did nothing to cover the soft happiness in his eyes. “You’re shitting me.”

“I’m doing no such thing, Tucker.”

“You’d have to have some idea.”

Wash lifted his arm and examined it closer, pulling a vague, faded memory from the confines of his mind. “A knife.”

“Are you sure?”

He hesitated. “Almost.”

“You seriously don’t know?”

Wash shook his head. “Tucker… I am _covered_ in scars. You can’t expect me to remember where each and every one came from.”

“I remember mine,” Tucker muttered, and fell silent for several moments.

It didn’t last.

“Do you know where __any__ of these are from?” he asked, and barely gave Wash a chance to think about it before he trailed his hand up a little higher, to the sleeve of his shirt, to a long, thick white scar that ran from near his armpit to nearly halfway down his elbow. He tapped it.  _“That. _”__

“What?”

“You’d have to remember that one.”

As a matter of fact, Wash did. It was old, half a decade old at least, from when his arms had been smaller and there had been less space between his shoulder and his elbow. It had pulled and stretched with age as he’d grown, distorting it.

“Got caught with a knife,” he said, mildly, thinking of the mistake he’d made that had nearly been fatal. “I swung too wide, and he ducked through and raked it along my arm. Narrowly, _narrowly_ missed my artery.”

Tucker frowned. “I thought your arteries were down here.”

He ran his hand down to Wash’s wrist, where his fingers danced on the thin skin covering Wash’s veins. For a moment, Wash stared at him, before he nodded.  

“And they start,” he said, grabbing Tucker’s hand with his free one and moving it back to where the scar was, “up here.”

“Oh.”

Tucker’s fingers sought out another scar, and patiently, Wash let him.

“This one?”

One of the few decorating his neck. His chest, arms, and even his back had caught the brunt of most of his scarring, but his vital areas, including his face and neck, hadn’t escaped unscathed.

“Glass bottle,” he murmured, and that made a shiver ripple through him. Before Tucker could say anything, he closed his eyes and tapped the white scarring under his eye. “Same as here.”

“What happened?” Tucker’s eyes darted between the two scars, before finally settling on the one under his eye that marred his freckles. “At first…” he said slowly, lifting his hand to replace Wash’s, and Wash let his eyes slip shut under the feeling of Tucker’s fingers on his face. “When you look at it, you mostly notice this thick bit. But, when you look closer you can kinda see how long it runs. Almost all the way to your ear, Wash,” he said, as if Wash wasn’t very aware of the shape that the scar took.

He hesitated for only a moment. “I was on the ground. He brought down the bottle, and it was lucky I managed to move out of the way just enough that it hit my cheek at an angle, rather than straight down.”

Tucker frowned and skimmed his fingertips lightly across it once more. “Wouldn’t that have made the scar worse?”

“He was aiming for my eye, Tucker. If I hadn’t moved, he would have taken it out.”

Tucker blew out a breath, and Wash was touched by the concern on his face. “Fuck,” he said, lowly. “That’s… wow.”

Wash lifted a shoulder and dropped it.  “Every scar is a lesson learnt,” he said. “A mistake not to be made again, if you can avoid it.”

“That’s a hard way to learn a lesson.”

Wash didn’t argue that. It was.

“Your face after that…” Tucker started, then let himself trail off.

“Terrible,” Wash confirmed, reading Tucker’s thoughts from the way his eyes seemed to run all over Wash’s face. “He gouged me badly. My skin hung down, and it was… unpleasant to look at for a long time after that.”

“How’d it heal?”

“Very, veryslowly. Whenever it began to heal properly, someone would break it open again. It was a very large, very obvious weak point… however, that also made their movements predictable, and eventually I learned to defend it well enough that it healed.”

“Jesus— didn’t you get some stitches, or anything? A fucking bandage? You can’t tell me you had nothing.”

“We didn’t,” Wash agreed. “We had some medical intervention, if you could call it that. It was just very rare, because it was costly and time consuming. We only ever got it if we were good enough fighters, and had proven ourselves enough, and the wound wasn’t too expensive to treat. If anything got severely infected, or you were out of the fight too long, you often just got written off.”

“Fucking hell,” Tucker murmured, and his grip was suddenly tighter around Wash’s. “How… how close did you come?”

“Too close,” Wash muttered, and his words were final.

 Tucker bit at his lip and let it be.

“Sorry,” he said, after a moment.

“For what? You’re allowed to be curious, Tucker, and you’re allowed to ask questions.”

“Okay,” Tucker said, rather than argue it, because he __was__ curious, and Wash evidently didn’t mind answering providing some answers, a trust he would be careful not to break. “Any… you know, any other glass bottles? Sorry, it’s just a weird weapon, I think.”

Wash nodded. “Of course.”

“Any bad ones?”

Out of every emotion he felt at the conversation, it was amusement and a warm, familiar exasperation that came at Tucker’s questions, and Wash allowed the corners of his lips to curl briefly.

“Of course.”

“Like what?” Tucker prompted, and he shifted so that he wasn’t looking directly at Wash, but was lying by his side, and lay against him.

Wash grounded himself to the touch and let himself get lost in his thoughts, in his memories. “Out of all the physicalwounds,” he said, slowly. “One of the ones on my leg. It begins just below my hip and goes on down to my knee.”

“I’ve seen that,” Tucker broke in. “It’s… long.”

Long was only one of the words Wash had for the thick, roped scarring that ran down his leg.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It is.”

“Don’t they hurt? All your— all your scars, and shit? I had my ribs broken before and it still hurts sometimes. Just like, a twinge, but… still…” The question was sudden and unexpected, and even Tucker looked surprised that he’d asked it. “I mean… they just look like they would, is all. I know they’re like, healed.”

Wash lifted his eyes from Tucker’s shirt, where he’d been gazing as if he could peer through the material and Tucker’s skin to the once injured area underneath, and nodded.

“They do. I— I don’t think some of them will ever stop hurting. In the cold, and if I don’t stretch and loosen up my joints properly, it’s particularly bad. New injuries on top of old ones are obviously more difficult to deal with, too.”

“You’re going to be one withered old man,” Tucker mumbled, and he buried his face into Wash’s shoulder. He was met with a soft huff of air. 

“If I make it that far.”

Tucker lifted his head up to glare at him. “Don’t say that.”

Wash opened his mouth, then shut it again, because it wasn’t worth arguing. Tucker accepted his brief victory and lay his head back down, letting it roll so that it was against Wash’s shoulder.

“The one on your leg…” he started. “You said that was one of the worst?”

A nod. “The most severe, yes. Not the most painful.”

He answered Tucker’s question before he could ask it. “I had my arm broken, once — very badly. I was on the ground and they stomped on it, elbow down. That was… agonising.”

Tucker swallowed, audibly. “How the hell did you keep fighting with those injuries?”

“I was given medical assistance for that one, actually. Same with my leg. I was only tended to three times in all my life there, and those were two of them. Maybe that’s why they stand out the most.”

“Or maybe it’s because they would have been beyond fucking painful,” Tucker disagreed. “Pain has a way of sticking with you.”

Wash hummed and said nothing.

“How did… what happened with your leg? Like, what happened to cause that? I know you said a bottle, but… it’s so _long._ ”

“I was standing above him. When I went to finish it, he lunged up, and dragged it down my leg. I’m lucky, of course. He could have hit the artery there, and I would have bled out immediately.”

Tucker looked distressed. “Jesus.”

“It was my fault, actually. Someone had kicked it back over to him when I was distracted, and I didn’t notice until it was too late. It didn’t help him, though. Just made everything a lot harder for me.”

“Did you…”

“He cut me open, Tucker. If I hadn’t been going to kill him already, I would have then.”

Tucker made a small ‘o’ with his lips and nodded, deciding how to respond to that, before a thought struck him and he looked up at Wash.

“You said _physical_ scars,” he pointed out. “What about, y’know? The other stuff?”

A wry smile twisted Wash’s lips. “Someone stabbed me in the back,” he said.

“With a… with what? A bottle?”

Wash inclined his head.

“Oh,” Tucker said, softly.

“It wasn’t an opponent, either,” Wash said, the words spilling from his lips before he’d had a chance to hold them back. “It was a spectator. Someone who wasn’t happy with how I was doing, I suppose. I did have a way of fighting that typically got… uninteresting, fast.”

“What?” Tucker’s brow furrowed. “What the fuck does _that_  mean?”

“I _survived. _”__ He laughed, dryly. “I didn’t rush into it, trying to get the most damage in, or show that I was the strongest. I kept out of reach where I could, used my size and my speed to my advantage to get hits in. Wear at them, tear them down slowly, then take them out quickly. Not exactly the best for entertainment.”

“Wash…”

“And when somebody else had the same style as I did, it led to problems. There wasn’t enough bloodthirst, not enough violence. It wasn’t _interesting_ enough, watching two kids trying to tactically analyse their way out. They wanted raw power and anger, not the dull, unending fight to survive.”

“So someone _stabbed_ you?” Tucker repeated, incredulously, before he could help himself.

“They wanted it to be interesting,” Wash said evenly, but there was an underlying darkness to his tone. “That taught me that danger can come from anywhere. Even if there’s a threat right at your face, there’s probably one at your back, too. You have to always be ready.”

Tucker’s voice was fierce. “That’s not a lesson you should have to learn.”

This time the tightening of his grip on Wash was deliberate, as if he was holding him there to keep him, to protect him, to shelter him from everything that had already been done.

“That’s _bullshit_. I mean, all of it is bullshit, but that’s just… How much does that fuck your trust up? I mean, no wonder…”

Wash shrugged again, but now his eyes were dancing on Tucker.

“I didn’t have trust until I met you,” he reminded.

Tucker’s anger abated. “Yeah,” he said, softly. “Yeah, I know.”

They lapsed into silence, and this time Wash was the one who moved closer, lifting his hand to wrap it around Tucker’s. Tucker released his tight grip and instead just held onto him, his eyes fluttering closed, and Wash wanted to succumb to the silence but now he was far too antsy.

The memories were too fresh in his mind, finally unlocked from the corner of his mind that he’d had to force them into in order to be able to think, to focus, to survive. He’d never considered bringing them out and facing them since, but now that they were out, he found that it was almost… relieving.

Not _quite _,__ but almost, and that was enough.

“Any more questions?” he asked, and Tucker looked up at him, surprised.

“You don’t mind?”

Wash avoided his eyes. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be. I thought… I thought all of it would be hard, but it’s… some parts come easier. The less severe ones, I suppose.”

Tucker appeared to have an internal debate over whether to push that or not, before he shook his head slightly and pressed his face into Wash’s shoulder. Wash fought the urge to tell him it was easier because it was __him,__ because he was with him, and because Tucker always made the hard things easier for Wash. In the end, he didn’t, because Tucker was speaking.

“What about the one across your nose?”

“A knife.” Wash didn’t hesitate. “See the clean cut, how straight the scar is? Not much else can do that except a knife.”

“Of course,” Tucker sighed, but he unburied his face from Wash’s shoulder to eye it cautiously. “I used to think it was the same scar as this one,” he said, and once more his soft fingertip landed softly on the scar under his eye that signified how close Wash had come to being half blind.

“Oh,” Wash said, because he had nothing else to say.

“Yeah, but then… you can see that they’re totally different. This one across your nose is newer.”

Wash nodded. “One of the newest.”

“How long ago?” Tucker asked, but that was a question that Wash couldn’t begin to answer.

“One of the newest,” he repeated, and Tucker had to accept that.

“Okay. Um, how?”

Wash’s eyes glossed over as he lost himself in the memory. “She was very quick,” he said. “Faster than me, definitely. And very good with a knife.”

“Woah, _she?_ There were _girls?_ ”

“Of course, Tucker.” Wash frowned at him.

“I just— I mean, I guess, but I didn’t except…”

“Not as many,” Wash confirmed. “But that may have had to do with something else, not just the fighting.”

Tucker frowned, then tensed, and Wash’s fingers squeezed his gently. “She won,” he told him, to distract him from the dark expression that had pulled Tucker’s features together.

It worked.

“But… how…?”

“She showed mercy,” Wash told him, and it was clear by his tone that that wasn’t something that happened often. “I didn’t expect it, either, and I don’t think I would have given it if I were in her position, but she’s one of the reasons I’m alive now.”

“She just… let you off?”

“Of course not. She beat me until I was unconscious, and covered me with dozens of superficial wounds during the fight, but she didn’t kill me.”

“She had a knife,” Tucker said, slowly.

“And she chose not to use it to take another competitor out of the game.”

“Maybe it was an accident?”

Wash shook his head. “She knew what she was doing. She was— she was the best I’ve ever seen.”

The easy air from before had faded, and wisely, Tucker chose not to push it any further. Instead, he sat upright, and Wash chose to do the same so that they could face each other.

“I’m glad you’re here, Wash,” Tucker told him, and his tone was so open and painful that Wash regretted bringing it up again. He’d never wanted to give Tucker anymore to worry about, or to tell him anything that would cause him pain.

He just hadn’t really expected it to make Tucker look at him how he had — worried, his face drawn, and looking for all the world like he just wanted Wash to be safe. 

His voice caught in his throat when he went to respond, went to say how glad he was that Tucker was here too, because he’d been about ready to give up on everything before he’d found him, and instead he just ducked his head and nodded.

“I suppose it is better than the alternative,” he tried, but Tucker pulled himself more upright and forced Washington to look at him.

“No, I— I mean it. I’m so glad, Wash. Just think about it — if anything, any tiny, _little_  thing had gone just a bit wrong, a bit different, then you and I wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

His bleak tone seeped into Wash, and his words filled him with a sadness.

“Yet we are here,” he said, and couldn’t help but feel that this should be the other way around.

Tucker shook his head again. “Still,” he insisted, his eyes unwavering from Wash’s. “It’s… it’s fucking _terrifying_ to think about, dude. How close we’ve all come to losing this. To not having it in the first place.”

“Tucker…”

“No, Wash. It’s… I don’t like thinking about it.”

“Then don’t,” Wash said, uneasily, because Tucker’s tone was setting him more and more on edge.

“But I can’t—”

“ _Please _,__ Tucker.”

His voice cracked, gave him away, and Tucker clutched at him with some alarm. A silence settled, and at first it seemed destined to be only fleeting, but when Tucker ducked his head and let his eyes slide shut, Wash realised he was actually giving in.

Surprised, he hesitated, then released his tension and reached out to pull Tucker closer to him. He put his hand in Tucker’s hair and closed his eyes, and there, with Tucker’s head on his chest, rising and falling with his breaths and calmed by the sound of his heartbeat, they stayed.

_I told you I'd show you—_


	30. the slow progression of something sweet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all incredibly so for the support <3 there's a lot coming on the horizon, i promise.

It lasted a long time, but not long enough. Wash slipped in and out of a light doze, but the second Tucker started getting antsy, Wash knew it. Felt the tap of his foot against the end of the bunk, heard the quiet sigh, saw the unhappy tension to his shoulders growing more prominent by the second.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked, when Tucker’s foot tapping increased its frequency.

“No.”

“...Tucker.”

A sigh. “I’m not, Wash. I’m just annoyed.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to think about it.”

“And I thought _you_ said earlier that we’d talk about it later, but… I tried,” Tucker eventually pointed out. “But there’s no way I can’t, y’know? Not now. I thought… and then last night, you know, how you looked… _Doc_ seeing people watching you. It’s bad, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Wash stiffened. “I don’t think—”

“Well I do. You know what I’m going to ask, dude, why do you have to make it difficult?”

Wash tensed, pulled away. “I’m making it difficult?” he demanded. “Tucker, why can’t you just let this go?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tucker’s eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t even told me the full story yet, don’t think I haven’t forgotten that. I don’t think asking _this_ is so much, all things considered.”

Wash couldn’t shake it off. The driving force behind Tucker’s actions, behind his words, all centered in on the one thing Wash couldn’t escape from. He must have begun to pull away again, because Tucker’s hands clutched at him, and he stilled at the feeling of warm hands trying to hold him close.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that. Just listen to me. You’ve been through _so fucking much _,__ Wash. Way too much for any one person to have to go through, and for way too long. I— it’s not fair, you know, and I know you always say shit isn’t fair but I don’t _care.”_

“There’s no point— there’s _really_  no point going around in circles on this. What happened last night… it was a mistake, but it taught me something—”

“Alright, stop right there. I don’t care what you have to say about this, Wash, let’s just get that straight. That sounds super cunty, but it’s not, because I _know_ you, and I’m not just going to let you shit on anything I have to offer just because it means _having us around_ or _accepting_ _help_ or whatever the fuck problem you somehow see with this plan.”

Wash drew himself up, felt his chest tighten at Tucker’s words, but before he could respond Tucker’s gaze softened and he hesitantly put a hand on Wash’s arm.

“I’m not _trying_ to be a dick. It’s just so frustrating with you. You’re so stubborn that you can’t even consider that maybe I’m right. I mean, why should it just be you, carrying the weight of everything around? You’re not Atlas, Wash, even though I’m sure you try your goddamn hardest to be.”

Wash’s words died away. What Tucker said hadn’t been what he’d expected, and it had left him with a closed up throat and no response. “I’m not sure who Atlas is,” he finally whispered, and Tucker groaned and wrapped his arms around him. The abruptness of his touch had made him tense, but it immediately faded, and he accepted the embrace without question.

“I’m just saying you need to stop trying to do everything on your own,” Tucker told him, his words muffled by Wash’s shoulder.

“I’m not—”

 _“Don’t_ say you’re not. You are.” A pause. “But you don’t need to.”

“I’m… I’m really not, Tucker.”

Tucker shook his head. “You’re so used to doing it that it’s second nature to you, Wash,” he said, and he sounded tired. “But I’m serious. If you’re in trouble, you don’t have to face it all by yourself anymore. You don’t have to do all this shit alone. We can watch your back.”

Tucker’s words rang around in Wash’s brain, and he knew they hadn’t been chosen accidentally, knew that the meaning they held had been intentional. But he didn’t want to answer, because the conversation had looped around to exactly what Wash hadn’t wanted it to.

“Let us help. Let _me_ help.”

Wash closed his eyes. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Then help _me,_ so I can help _you.”_

He shook his head. His eyes were open again, watching, and he felt a pang of regret in his heart when Tucker’s eyes flashed with hurt. “You don’t understand,” he said, but this time _he_  held tightly to Tucker’s hands to keep him from pulling away. “I don’t think there’s anything that  _I_ can do to help you. Against him… there’s nothing I can do.”

“Maybe not _just_ you,” Tucker tried, but Wash shook his head again.

“If _I_ don’t have the skills to face him,” he explained, slowly, his words coming out with difficulty, “then there is nothingthat I can… that I can _teach_ you that would help in any way.”

Tucker had to understand. He had to see what Wash was saying, had to know how much he meant it. When he didn’t argue, it seemed that he did. Until he let go of Wash’s hands and pulled back. “You won’t let us help you.”

“No, Tucker— don’t you _see?”_

“No!” Tucker cried, frustrated. “I don’t! All I see is you being goddamn _stubborn_ and refusing to even consider letting anyone have your back. Is it because you’re still afraid that the worst is going to happen? Because it won’t! But I can’t ever prove that to you, because you won’t let me! You just shut me off, shut everyone off, and try to deal with it by yourself—”

“That’s notwhat’s happening! Tucker, it’s for your safety. For _everyone’s_ safety.”

“You think running away from us is helping anything? And don’t just say it’s because you want to keep your distance for our sake, don’t fucking __lie__ to me, Wash — I know you’re doing it because you’re scared, too. You don’t want to face it, and you can’t bring yourself to ask for help. I bet the idea never even occurred to you, did it?”

It hadn’t. Because he’d been hiding so much, and still hid something now. How could he ask for help from someone who he was inadvertently hurting?

“That’s not…”

“Because you think keeping us away from you will keep us out of danger.” Tucker’s tone had changed abruptly, had flattened and sounded unerringly close to anger.

“I— yes,” Wash said, somewhat taken aback, and he grasped desperately for what he’d been about to say.

“Don’t _you_ see, Wash? It’s too late already. If you’re in danger, especially with Felix and Locus, then we all are. So this whole idea of only keeping somewhat close, is — it’s flawed. It’s fucking flawed.”

Wash’s stomach revolted at the guilt that churned in it, and at the icy cold feeling that crept up his spine and told him that what Tucker was saying was true. “No,” he said, faintly, because that was too much for him to think about.

He didn’t even need to look at the expression on Tucker’s face to know that he wouldn’t be discouraged, wouldn’t accept anything but what he wanted as an answer. For a brief moment, Wash was filled with conviction that even if he __did__ tell Tucker everything, laid out every single piece of the story that Tucker still didn’t know about, there was actually a chance that Tucker would stick with him.

A chance. Somehow. Could he have found something so good? _Someone_ so good, when he didn’t deserve it?

Regardless of the answer, he still found that he _couldn’t._ Not now, when he’d only just gotten Tucker, actually _had_ him like he’d never imagined was possible. Not when he had an idea, a possible way to get himself out of this, to fix this and make it better and, most importantly, make sure Tucker didn’t get hurt.

“I just want you to let us help you,” Tucker said again, his voice still hard with determination. “Stop running away and give us a chance. Give _me_ a chance. Not only to try and understand it, but to try and… and be there for you.”

Wash didn’t answer.

“Isn’t this better?” Tucker pressed, and his hand squeezed Wash’s without him even seeming to be aware of it. “It’s gone from just shit to— to something good. You know? And it happened because you finally came back instead of just running away again.”

Wash’s eyes lifted to his, his mind blank, stopped, starting again. Tucker was right. Through and through, down to the very core of his words and the emotion with which he’d said them, _Tucker was right._

“I already… I already said I wouldn’t…”

“And I already said you couldn’t. I won’t let you. I’m going to cling onto you so much that you’re going to fucking hate me, Wash. Anything so that you don’t just try and fucking leave us again.”

Tucker blew out a deep breath, and when he let it out, he unclenched the fist he’d been making with his free hand, the one that wasn’t holding tightly to Wash’s.

Then he let Wash go.

“Unless you really want to,” he said, and Wash was reminded that although everything seemed easy, they were both still vulnerable underneath.

He grabbed him back, a mimicry of Tucker’s earlier actions. “I never wanted to, Tucker. If I could have had any other choice, figured out any other way to handle the situation, don’t think for a moment that I wouldn’t have taken it.”

“I just don’t get whythat was the only thing you could think of. Why you’re still defending it like you’re __considering__ it.”

“You said it yourself,” Wash reminded, softly. “I had to keep my distance to keep you safe. Even if just at first, right afterwards, when I was positive he’d come for me next — I couldn’t be anywhere near you for that, Tucker. And then, when I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was after me… How could I justify it?”

“I get that,” Tucker said, indignantly. “I just know that that’s not all there is to it. You ran because you wanted to, Wash. Because you couldn’t bring yourself to open up to us. You didn’t even give us an explanation, and we were left trying to figure out why you’d gone, and pretending like everything was okay when you decided to come back.”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Wash was reminded abruptly of exactly what Tucker had thought the reason was for his disappearance, and he reached out without thinking to pull Tucker closer to him.

“I’m glad we can just do this,” Tucker admitted, his face muffled by Wash’s shirt. “Like, I don’t think you know how badly I’ve wanted to do this. And now I can, and it’s easy.”

“It is easy,” Wash agreed, and Tucker slanted his eyes towards him warily.

“What? Let me guess, it’s too easy?”

“What? No, I… how could it be too easy?”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Never mind. Whatever, I just don’t ever want to stop making the most of this.”

Wash had a lot of responses to that, but none of them seemed fitting, so he swallowed them all down and contented himself with the fact that Tucker was next to him, pressed against his side and his face buried into Wash’s chest.

“Plus,” Tucker mumbled, and drew Wash out of his reverie, “I know this won’t last. If you wondered why I’m suddenly touchy feely, it’s because I’m well aware of the fact that once we’re back in our own cell, we have to be careful again. _Especially_ with Felix across from us.”

The good feeling in Wash’s chest suddenly dissipated.

“Sorry, Wash,” Tucker said simply.

“Don’t start this again—”

“Don’t _make_ me start this again. I don’t want to. I just want you to agree, and then we can enjoy this for a little while longer, before we have to go face…” he gestured unhappily to the outside world, “… all that shit again.”

“So let’s enjoy it a little longer,” Wash murmured, and Tucker’s eyelids drooped slightly as he caught Wash’s eye.

 _“No,”_ he said abruptly, and shook himself. “No. Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop _seducing_  me.”

Wash laughed once, surprised, both at the sound and that he’d been the one to do it. “I assure you I’m not trying to do that.”

“Well you’re doing it anyway,” Tucker grumbled. “Just agree with me for once, Wash. I don’t want to do this bullshit anymore. Grif’s right, we have way too much drama.”

“Tucker,” Wash said, carefully, “even if I entertained the idea that you were _right,_ and what you were saying made sense— _ _”__

 _ _“_ Which it does. _At leastadmit to that.”

“— what you’re asking me to do is…”

“Is find a happy medium that gets us through this mess! What’s so fucking hard to understand about that? You teach me a little self defense, and all of a sudden half this shit is dealt with. I get to be near you —  _ _we__ get to be near you, because you can come back to us again, and I’m out of danger. Mostly.”

Wash said nothing, his eyes closed and his head tipped back. He wished Tucker would just drop it, because what he said actually did make sense, in a way Wash couldn’t really refute. More than that, on a level that he tried his hardest to refuse to acknowledge, he knew he wanted what Tucker was offering. A return to normalcy, to step back to the level of stability and happiness that he’d had before.

It was so goddamn _appealing._

“Then why are you so against it?” Tucker asked, and it took Wash a moment to figure out he’d voiced that aloud.

If only he knew how badly Wash __wasn’t__ against it — instead, how afraid he was that giving in meant that he was weak, that he was selfish, and he’d be putting Tucker and all his friends in the scope of danger once more.

And it meant that everything he’d done, how hard he’d worked to keep his distance despite how __hard__ it had been, would be for nothing. That he could risk making that all obsolete. For his distance from Tucker to be for _nothing—_

Tucker interrupted his thoughts before they could spiral any further. “Let me just get this one thing straight. You’re in danger, sort of. You’re being __watched__ , which is never ever a good thing, especially not when Felix is involved, and you’re worried it could get worse. A way to help you would be by you not being _alone_ all the fucking time, which makes you a target—”

“Because—”

“And _if,_ and this is an _if_ , despite that I am absolutely shit scared of Locus, it makes me a target, or puts me in danger, or however the fuck you want to say it, you turn around and say you not only won’t let me help you, but, if it comes down to it—”

“It _won’t_ come down to it,” Wash cut in, because he knew what Tucker was going to say, but Tucker ignored him and barreled on.

“— you won’t help me protect myself. How is that fair, Wash?”

Wash was still for a long time. Tucker’s words were logical, his argument reasonable and fair, surprisingly, and Wash knew that any counterargument he made would just be ignored. He __knew__ that, and knew Tucker knew it too, but when it came down to it, Tucker was asking him to do was more than he was capable of.

 _“Why_ are you so against it?” Tucker repeated, but this time, he had a pleading tone to his voice.

Wash let his eyes drift open. “Because to teach you,” he finally said, slowly, “means I have to hurt you first.”

Tucker stilled for a heartbeat before his eyes flashed to Wash’s.

“Right,” he said, quietly, before he cleared his throat and looked away, regaining himself. He straightened his shoulders, the best he could, and when he met his gaze next he didn’t let Wash look away from him. “Not like I haven’t been there before though, right? At least this time it’ll count for something.”

“It could never count for something,” Wash murmured, but that seemed to be the end of it. Tucker had won.

They fell back into each other, together and safe and so short lived.

* * *

 

Wash could feel Tucker’s nervous anticipation as they left the cell in D block and began their return journey to the more populated areas of the detention centre. He led them past the mess hall, down the corridors past the rec hall, and turned off towards the school block.

“A classroom?” Tucker questioned, warily, as they approached. “I don’t think you thought this through, dude. Even if you were just planning on lecturing me, it’s not gunna work.”

Wash stopped short. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, if you’d been paying attention, you’d know that they’ve started locking the classrooms properly lately, since Grif wouldn’t stop stealing shit.”

“He’s _still_ doing that?”

Tucker shrugged. “He wants Simmons to stop going. I don’t think all of it is him, though. I think he set off some copycats.”

“Ah.”

Tucker could see that Wash didn’t have any further ideas. “What about our cell?” he offered.

Wash frowned at him. “What if someone walks by?”

“It’ll be obvious we’re not actually fighting, dude. And with three walls on either side, it’s better than almost any other option we can get. Unless you want to go back to D cell, which I wouldn’t recommend. If we go there too often it’ll raise suspicion.”

Wash frowned even harder.

“Unless you’ve got a better plan?”

“You know, you try hard to make things more difficult for yourself when you really shouldn’t.”

Tucker shrugged. “I’m good at pushing buttons.”

Wash mumbled under his breath, but they turned and made their way back to the cell. They were more careful now, aware that the easiness between them could draw attention their way in public, so they kept a respectful distance from one another until they were on the walkways in their cell block.

“Do you mind this?” Tucker asked.

It took Wash a moment to realise Tucker had grabbed his hand.  “Not at all,” he said, but Tucker released him anyway.

“Good. Because I never want to stop doing it.”

Wash smiled, because his mind had begun wandering and his thoughts had turned back to Felix, and Tucker had just proved an excellent distraction. He knew that he could only put it out of his mind for so long, that eventually he would have to give in and do something about it. For now, though, Tucker was with him, and it was infinitely easier to push it all down and keep it under lock and key until it was time to actually act on his decision.

“I hope you don’t,” he said, honestly.

“Yeah? You know, this talking shit is a lot easier than I thought. I think because before I was so worried about what I could say, but now I just say anything, and for the most part it seems okay.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“What about you?” Tucker pressed.

“I suppose. I haven’t really thought about it, truthfully.”

“Good.”

They entered their cell and looked at each other. Once there, the reality seemed to set in. Wash’s hesitance must have shown, because Tucker immediately drew himself up and shook his head.

“ _ _No,__ ” he said, before Wash could say anything more than his name. “Come on, you said we would.”

“I never actually said that _ _,__ Tucker. And what if someone comes past?”

Tucker shot him an exasperated look. “Then we’ll explain we’re just mucking around.”

“That’s not… a good excuse.”

“Good enough,” Tucker said, and Wash thought that he was far too eager.

“Tucker…”

“Come _on._  Wash, seriously, you promised me you would—”

“I _didn’t_  promise, Tucker, I didn’t even _say_ it, I didn’t even agree that we would try. We _will,”_ he said, before Tucker could argue any further. “I just… we just need to set some ground rules first.”

“Okay. Like what?”

Wash straightened. “If I do anything that hurts you, or makes you uncomfortable—”

“No, okay, _stop._ I thought you meant proper rules, not things revolving around the assumption that I’m a giant baby.”

“If you’re not going to do this properly…”

“Fine! If you hurt me or _anything else,_ I’ll let you know. Deal?”

Wash closed his eyes and reigned in his patience. “I just want to do this right, Tucker,” he said, and it came out far quieter than he’d intended.

Tucker hesitated again, and this time it seemed to get through to him. “Okay,” he said, with less reluctance. “I meant what I said. If anything’s wrong, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, can we…?”

Wash breathed out through his nose and relented. Slowly, he flexed, tensing his muscles and assessing himself before he fell back into his fighting stance. “Try and mimic me.” 

Tucker frowned. He lifted his fists and tried to position them in a way that mirrored Wash’s, and the result was off but satisfactory for a first attempt. Wash nodded.

“Fall back, evenly distribute your weight between your legs. Turn yourself slightly to the side.”

Tucker did, his brow drawing together in concentration.

“Good. This is a basic defensive stance, but an effective one. It allows you to position yourself to respond to any cue given by your opponent, and makes you a smaller target. That’s what you’re aiming for — fight in response, and try to avoid getting hit as much as possible.”

“Okay.”

“Bring your fists up, more. There.” He watched him for several moments, his lips pursed together, before he nodded.

“Okay, now what?”

Wash hesitated. “If I were to throw a punch with my right hand, what would you do?” he asked, and Tucker squinted.

“Um, try and block it?”

“No. Show me.”

“Uh…” Tucker waved his arm up in the air, and he didn’t need Wash to shake his head to know that it was useless.

“No. If an attack is coming towards you, I find moving with my body to get out of the way is best. You can block a punch with one arm if necessary, but depending who you’re fighting, it may not be very effective, and chances are you’d end up getting hurt. If you move away, you gain distance, and you may also open up an opportunity in their defences.”

“Okay.”

“Show me again.”

Tucker ran Wash’s words over in his mind before he tried again, making a conscious effort to move his upper body away from the imaginary blow.

Wash shook his head again. “Better, but no. You also dropped your stance a lot.”

“Well it’s—” Tucker broke off, then tried again. “Okay. So you’re swinging a punch—”

“Somebody is,” Wash corrected, but he went ignored.

“And I need to move out of the way, and at the same time look for a good spot to hit you _while_ you’re still throwing the punch.”

“… Essentially, yes. But just focus on dodging, for now.”

Tucker blew out a breath and nodded. “Okay, how’s this?”

Wash watched him, eyes assessing all the mistakes, noting every opening Tucker created with himself and the clumsiness of his movements. It was hard to imagine that he’d been at that stage, once. 

“Not quite. You’re letting your stance shift too much — even though you’re blocking, you still need to make sure you don’t open up any obvious holes in your positioning.”

“And how do I do that?”

Wash considered that, before he fell back in his stance and imagined a fist coming towards him. His response was immediate, a sharp duck to the left, under the arm of his non-existent assailant and around behind them, before he mimed bringing his elbow down sharply.

“Do you see?” he asked, and Tucker nodded begrudgingly. “That opens up a lot of opportunities: you could break their arm, or dislocate it at the least. You could also bring them into a chokehold if the opportunity is right. You could kick their knees out — trying to get them to the ground is something you should aim for, because it puts you on the offensive and forces them to try and protect themselves.”

Tucker nodded, trying to absorb all the information he could at once.

“Let me see you try.”

Once more, he made a basic attempt, and although Wash was happier with it, Tucker seemed frustrated.

“That was better, Tucker.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Tucker groaned. “You made it look so easy. Plus, it’s stupid just like, acting it all out. I feel like an idiot.”

“It’s not,” Wash told him. “In fact, it’s very difficult, especially in an actual situation. There’s nothing _easy_ about this, Tucker.”

“Well yeah, but it’s hard to figure it all out when you’re just telling me! I need you to show me!”

Wash withdrew a little, before he forced himself to nod. “You’re right.” He stepped forward and fell into his stance, and without prompting Tucker did the same. “I’m going to throw a punch with my right hand,” he said, carefully, and waited until Tucker nodded at him impatiently.

The move was slow and predictable, no force behind it, easy for Tucker to block. He ducked away and tried to mimic Wash’s earlier action, tried to get behind him and bring his elbow down, but Wash was prepared for it. He twisted easily and followed up by rapidly changing the direction of his attack, sending his arm hurtling towards Tucker’s face.

“Well, fuck,” Tucker said, to the elbow a centimetre from his nose.

“Don’t be predictable, Tucker. The hardest people I’ve ever fought have been unpredictable.”

Tucker pulled back with a frown. “Okay. Did I block okay?”

“You did.” Wash nodded. “However, your stance still dropped immediately after, and while you were busy trying to get behind me, you made yourself a target.”

“I was just—”

“No excuses, Tucker.”

Tucker rolled his eyes. “Wow. I didn’t think you’d be this grumpy of a teacher.”

“Teaching you how to survive in a fight isn’t something I’m going to take lightly.”

“Okay. Geez.”

“Stop dropping your stance.”

 _“Alright._ Go again.”

Wash did. Another slow punch, but this time he waited to see what Tucker would do once he’d avoided it, rather than making any following moves. He could tell what he had planned the moment he’d decided it, and he caught Tucker’s leg as it kicked out towards him and used it to throw him off balance.

He landed with a groan. “Okay, that was stupid. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

“What was your plan there?”

“I just _said_ I don’t know.”

Wash knelt in front of him. “You have to know, Tucker. It’ll be a long time before you can act without thinking, and until then every movement must have at least __some__ thought behind it.”

“It’s not like I can predict what you’re gunna do,” Tucker grumbled, and accepted Wash’s hand to pull himself to his feet.

“You have to try. And don’t stop moving unless you have space. I saw you hesitate when I didn’t make any moves.”

“Well, yeah, ‘cos I thought you’d… okay, yeah. I see what you’re saying.”

“And _don’t_ drop your stance.”

“Okay!” He resumed it. “Okay. So my block and duck, whatever you call it, that’s okay, but I’m predictable and slow.”

“And you keep dropping your stance.”

 _“And_  I keep dropping my stance.”

“Right. Your slowness can’t be helped yet, but your stance should be central to everything you do. It’s paramount — it’s literally your only defence, and so every move you make should be calculated with how you leave yourself open during and after.”

“Right. And it’ll just, what, become second nature?”

“Eventually. Until then, we’ll focus on this more, because it’s your weak point. I’ll throw a few light hits towards you, and you try your best to stop them — focus on your stance, and how each move you make changes it. Nothing else — just focus on dodging or blocking. Is that alright?”

“Yeah, dude. Uh, yeah. Go for it.”

“… Get into your stance, Tucker.”

“Right, right. Fuck. Sorry.”

Wash’s hits were slow, and to the best that he could make them, predictable. There was no force behind them, but they did well at pushing through Tucker’s uncertain defences, showing him where the weak spots were, teaching him what they meant.

Every time his fist made contact with Tucker, he ached. But he could see sweat shining on Tucker’s forehead, could see the focus in his eyes as he tried to determine where Wash was aiming, thinking and planning and _learning_  what he could do to stop it, and Washington knew that he had to keep going.

They did well, and he knew that Tucker was adapting, his absorbed focus more intense than any other time Wash had seen him focused on anything — _except him_ , a small part of his mind whispered, and he was distracted enough by that thought that he didn’t pull enough of his punch, and it hit Tucker directly in the solar plexus with a solid __thunk.__

“Oof,” he said, backing away several steps, and he sucked in the air that had been abruptly knocked out of him.

Wash flexed his hands worriedly. “Are you alright?”

“Fine. Just, ow. The old solar plexus. That one’s a fucking killer.”

“Forces all the air out,” Wash said, automatically, as he assessed Tucker for any sign of real injury. “If you hit it hard enough, you  _can_  kill them.”

Tucker made a face. “Why are humans so fragile? Everywhere is a fucking weak point, I swear.”

“Everywhere _is_ a weak point. Some are just weaker than others.”

“I know.” His tone was sour. “That’s why I’m trying to defend myself, Wash.”

Wash was contrite. “Right. Sorry. I really am sorry, Tucker. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Tucker waved it away. “I’m fine, dude. Already can’t feel it.” He didn’t seem to be consciously aware that he was still rubbing at it, until he followed Wash’s gaze down to his hand. “Uh, anyway. Any tips?”

Wash raked his eyes over him, then nodded. “You’re doing better, _when you actually hold your stance._ ” Tucker immediately moved into the position, and Wash nodded. “Much better. You’re figuring out what you’re meant to cover, not just mimicking me. That’s excellent.”

“Yeah, well you coulda told me.”

Wash cocked his head. “Nobody told me,” he pointed out. “And now you’re figuring out where to cover for yourself. No amount of mimicking me, or me trying to tell you, would accomplish that as well.”

“Okay, yeah. Learning the hard way, got it. Anything else?”

“Keep alert,” Wash said, and that was all the warning Tucker had before he was on his ass again, staring up at the ceiling.

Slowly, he sat up, and Wash stared down at him worriedly.

 _“Ohoh,_ fu _ _ck,__ what the fuck did you just do?”

“I took advantage of you not paying attention,” Wash told him, but his voice had tightened.

“You sure fucking did.” He accepted Wash’s help to get back to his feet — not just a hand, this time, Wash knelt next to him and practically lifted him upright. “How the hell was I supposed to defend against that?”

“Keep your stance up, Tucker! You’d already dropped it immediately!” 

Wash’s words were high pitched and frustrated, and Tucker winced. “I didn’t even know I did,” he mumbled, and Wash chewed at his lip and looked away.

A moment later he looked back. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Tucker…”

“What, Wash? I am. What do you want me to say, my ass hurts? Sure, it does, but that’s not a big deal.”

“I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

 _“Don’t_ be!”

Wash shook his head and backed up a step. “No, I am. I should have thought more before I followed through. I just saw the opportunity, and… I didn’t think.”

“Why? I learnt, didn’t I? I’ve still got my guard up!”

He was right. He hadn’t lowered his fists or straightened his legs from when he’d gotten to his feet, and Washington had to begrudgingly admit that it had worked. He’d hoped he would, it had been the only reason he’d done it in the first place, but it didn’t take away the ache and bitter resentment at himself that had filled him when he’d seen Tucker’s eyes widen in shock as he flew to the ground.

“I’m still sorry,” he said, because he _was._

Tucker shook his head. “No, dude. This is only the start. I’m bad, and I know it. I don’t know anything about this— I’m hopeless.”

Wash couldn’t argue that, but he wanted to anyway.

“This needs to happen, Wash. I need to learn, properly. I might be able to hold my own for a little bit, y’know, against anybody who isn’t like a lethal machine, but… yeah.” He gave a small shrug. Wash was quiet. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong,” he suggested.

Wash swallowed heavily. “You’re… you just keep leaving yourself open, Tucker. All your vital spots, all the places where I— where I could take you down in a second.”

“Okay, I can work on that. Vital spots like, my solar plexus, my face, my neck I guess? That’s what you went for before, in the first round, and I see what you were saying. I felt like you coulda snapped it, like, just like _that.”_

Wash closed his eyes and tried to will the mental images away.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tucker said, and a worried crease appeared between his eyes. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?

“Tucker…”

“So keep showing me what I’m doing wrong.”

“It’s not you,” Wash said, through his teeth, and the force of it surprised them both. “Most people can’t fight like I can. I’m probably not the best person to teach you, Tucker, I — I see too much. It’s probably more simple for other people.”

“Other people who aren’t as good.”

His voice was sharp. “It’s not a matter of _good.”_  

“Okay, let me rephrase. People who can’t fight as well as you, and therefore can’t defend as well as you, and so can’t _teach_ as well as you. Come on, you know this,” Tucker urged. “I’m not going to learn anything if you keep pulling punches.”

Wash’s face turned stony. “If I didn’t pull my punches—”

“That’s not what I _meant_  — it’s a phrase. I mean you’re babying me, and it’s going to take forever if you keep being afraid of getting a little rough. I’m not afraid of it, am I? And I’m the one who’s at risk of getting their ass beat. So do me a favour and just toughen up a bit, would ya?”

Wash was forced to face his words, so he had no time to wonder _why_ Tucker thought they needed to be so urgent.

“Just — stop thinking of me as Tucker, and think of me as like, I dunno. Some other weak threat.”

Immediately, Wash stopped, halfway into his stance. “No.”

“I’m serious. You need to get your head out of it and just focus on what’s important.”

“I… I’m not going to stop thinking of you as _you,_ Tucker.”

Tucker was genuinely confused. “Why not?”

“Because— it’s… I’m not— that’s not necessary. Look, just fall back, and we’ll try again. Same scenario as the first time. Try and predict my movements.”

It stopped Tucker arguing, at least. He obeyed, his face scrunched with concentration, and waited until Wash struck. He lasted a short while, but it wasn’t long before a punch came too quickly for him to dodge. It glanced off his cheekbone at the same time that Wash brought his knee up, but thankfully he pulled _that_ back and only left Tucker stumbling away with his hand to his cheek.

“Don’t,” he said, before Wash could say a word. “Don’t say sorry.”

Wash watched him wordlessly, restless and filled with guilt, before he moved forward and placed a hand over the one Tucker held to his face.

“I’m—”

 _“Sorry,_ yeah, I know. Seriously, _stop._ I should be the one that’s sorry,” Tucker muttered bitterly. “I’m not learning fast enough. There’s too fucking much to try and watch out for, and every time I fuck up I can tell you’re giving up on me.”

Wash used his hand as leverage to tilt Tucker’s face up to his.

“Don’t you dare say you’re not learning fast enough,” he said, his voice straining. “We’ve _just started._ I— I don’t know what you imagined, Tucker, but none of this is easy. It’s not easy, and it’s not pretty, and you have to get hurt to learn, and that’s why I didn’t want to put you through this. I don’t really know how to show you, and it’s frustrating and painful, and—”

He broke off.

“I’m not giving up on you,” he managed. “It’s just… You don’t understand how hard this is for me. To analyse you like this, picking you apart to see what would be the best way to __hurt you__.”

“Wash…”

“To _kill you,”_ he stressed, and Tucker immediately looked guilty.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t really think of that. I just hate that you look like you’re gunna call it quits every single time you actually hit me.”

“I haven’t really hit you yet.”

“Yeah, well. Hey, I think my blocks are getting a bit better.”

“They are,” Wash said, automatically, and he didn’t say they would still do nothing to stop him. The thought left his stomach churning and he tried to repress the feeling, to push down the sickening feeling that threatened to push bile up into his throat.

Tucker was still watching him thoughtfully. “Want to maybe try something else? You don’t… you don’t have to hit me.”

Wash nodded, dully, and tried to ignore the unspoken _yet._

He forced himself to breathe, to force down the guilt, but it refused to leave him. Everything about this screamed that this was wrong, every protective instinct rearing up and telling him what he already knew — he was hurting Tucker. Had already hurt him; could see a hundred and one more ways to hurt him even now.

He tried to focus on Tucker, waiting and expectant. He forced himself to speak, but his mind was still elsewhere, still analysing, forever analysing, but this time it was analysing __Tucker__.

“Sometimes… attacks can be a little less straightforward.”

The looseness of his stance, every vital area that remained unprotected. The distance between them and the speed Wash would need to close it — exactly what he’d been thinking when he’d brought his fist up to Tucker’s cheek and sent him stumbling backwards.

“They, uh… They can come from places you don’t expect. In forms you don’t expect.”

Like _him._ Like he was. An attacker, attacking _Tucker._

Tucker’s face, scrunched in pain, the air being forced from him as he dropped to one knee under Wash’s hand. The bruises that would bloom on his ribs and chest, on his arms, everywhere that Wash had already hit him in the short, short time they’d been trying this.

He realised he’d paused, and tried to make himself focus, make his brain kick into action, to remember what he’d been saying. “They can… they can put you at— at a disadvantage, immediately…”

But he couldn’t focus, couldn’t draw his mind away from itself when he couldn’t help it, couldn’t help thinking — how soft Tucker was, how easy to hurt and easy to break.

How frail he’d felt underneath Wash’s fists.

“Wash?”

“And disadvantage…” he whispered, hoarsely, finally aware of his own words even as he said them, “means death.”

How easy it would be to kill Tucker in an instant.

_“Wash?”_

Wash’s face paled, and he backed away. “I can’t do this,” he said, abruptly.

Tucker’s eyes widened and his face fell with disappointment. “But— we just— I thought we just got past that. You haven’t even really __hit me__ yet.”

Wash’s voice was suddenly desperate. “I can’t do this, Tucker.”

 “Wash—”

“I _can’t,”_  he stressed, and his stomach heaved so sickeningly he thought he really would throw up.

All of a sudden, Tucker was at his side, a comforting hand on his back, and Wash wasn’t sure when it had happened but at some point he’d fallen to his knees. He buried his head in his hands and tried to will away the images that had imprinted themselves in his retinas, but he couldn’t unsee what he feared the most.

“Come on,” Tucker was saying to him, “onto the bed. Come on.”

It wasn’t until his mattress was beneath him that Washington remembered that they were in their cell. Everything had narrowed down, the world shrinking down to a pinpoint around him as he’d focused on Tucker.

 _ _“_ I’m sorry _,__ ” he repeated, over and over. 

It was almost funny, it its own way, how he'd never put any weight on apologies, never even thought them worth giving once he'd learned the idea, and yet it was the only thing that could bring himself to give now. He'd already shown something else in his actions, in the way he'd struck Tucker, even if he hadn't wanted to, and now all he could do was say that he was sorry. 

“Don’t be,” Tucker said, misunderstanding him — because Wash wasn’t apologising for calling it off. He was apologising for how he’d looked at Tucker, how he’d seen him, as a target that Wash could destroy in moments.

He clutched his head with his hands and realised he was shaking. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and Tucker wrapped his warm arms around him.

“It’s okay,” Tucker murmured, and Wash felt his hand smooth his hair out of his face. “Shh, shh. It’s alright.”

It was nice — Tucker’s hands around him, calming him down, comforting him — but it also struck him as strange, and it took him a moment to sort out his thoughts enough to realise why. He’d never expected this from Tucker, never began to imagine that he could be so comforting when he wrapped his arms around Wash and hushed him softly, never thought that he would try.

He barely had a chance to wonder why Tucker was doing this for him, why he was comforting him in this way, when it threw him back, suddenly and unexpectedly, into a memory that he couldn’t quite remember. A haze, but one filled with a comforting voice, hushing him and brushing tears from his heated cheeks, smoothing a hand through his messy hair.

He’d been so _young._

That was such a long time ago that it seemed like it was happening to a different person, so distant and detached and foreign. Yet it was his memory, distinctly his, because  he’d felt it as strongly as he could feel Tucker’s hand running through his hair now.

Something clicked, and he abruptly remembered that Tucker had a son. A son that he would have comforted, just like this. Just like how he was comforting Wash now, just like Wash had been comforted when he was young, and Wash wondered whether it was an instinct or whether there had ever been a time in Tucker’s life that he’d experienced this, too.

It helped him get himself together, that thought. It reminded him that there was more going on outside the bubble that his universe had shrunk down to, especially things that he had to focus on—

_Felix Felix Felix_

— but he opened his eyes to look up at Tucker, and let that fall away, too.

“I swear, Wash,” Tucker said, his voice laced with concern, “you need to give yourself a break. __Before__ you give yourself an aneurysm. Seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

Wash laughed, and Tucker’s frown deepened as he moved to sit up and extract himself.

“That _wasn’t_ a joke, and I’m actually worried that you laughed at that. Okay, I admit. That, I guess, was on me. You’ve been stressed and shit lately, and I know… all that… wouldn’t have helped, so. Sorry. Not that I’m letting it go just yet, by the way, I’m just letting you have a break.”

“I don’t need a break,” Wash murmured. “I just need to stop thinking.”

Tucker’s eyebrow raised. “Uh, yeah. Good one. Is that even possible for you, dude?”

“Sometimes, I let myself hope.” Tucker frowned at him, and Wash sighed. “Tucker. It happens. Just not… not lately.”

“With everything that’s been going on? Being followed — or, sort of?”

“It’s nothing,” Wash responded, more on autopilot than anything, but it was the wrong thing to say. He opened his eyes several moments later when he could feel Tucker watching him.

“Nothing,” Tucker repeated, and let the word hang in the air for several moments. “Like how every time we asked what was wrong over the past few weeks, it was nothing? Is that the same kind of nothing?”

Wash shifted, everything suddenly making him uncomfortable — Tucker’s tone, his gaze, the way he held himself, tighter and defensive and wary. “I told you why I had to avoid you,” he said, and felt like he was repeating himself for the millionth time.

Tucker watched him, before he shook his head, his dreads swinging, and made a disappointed sound. “You know I’m not an idiot, right, Wash?”

Wash was stunned. “What? Of course not, Tucker. When you try to be, you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

“Hmm. Not much of a compliment, considering how many people that is, but I’ll take it. If you think I’m so smart, how come you keep treating me like I’m stupid?”

He’d progressed from stunned to genuinely dumbfounded. “I’m not— I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“Maybe not purposefully,” Tucker nodded. “But you’re still doing it.”

Finally, Wash caught on, and the look he gave Tucker was wary, but didn’t reflect the sudden fear that had begun to creep through him. Tucker’s next words confirmed it. 

“I know you’re still hiding something from me, Wash.”

“I— I told you—”

“Some of it. But not all. I know, you said that you couldn’t tell me, right. Right. I know. But just listen to me.”

Wash did, his eyes linked onto Tucker’s with a sudden desperation, a fearfulness that he was sure didn’t go unseen.

“I… I trust you. I trust that for whatever reason it is that you’re not telling me about what’s fully going on, it’s a good one. Don’t get me wrong, I hate it, and I wish you would _just…_ just _talk_ to me, Wash— but fuck it if I don’t understand that you might have a good reason why.”

He licked his lips and looked away.

“I did this to you once, too,” he reminded, softly. “But I hope that you’re keeping it from me for a better reason than I was keeping it from you.”

Wash couldn’t bring himself to speak, but apparently, he didn’t need to. Tucker got to his feet, pulling away from warmth and letting coldness settle in where his skin had been in contact with Wash’s only moments ago.

“And if you were wondering, _that’s_ part of why I’m so dead-set on trying to get you to do this. Even though I, I do get that’s it’s hard for you, Wash. It’s just, with everything going on… I don’t like it. Especially last night. I know it freaked you out, but, like, it freaked me out too. That’s why I pushed it today, even though I could see how much you didn’t like it, how much you didn’t want to… but I need you to. I __want__ this, Wash. I want to not feel useless, and not feel like a burden if I go places with you and you’re worried about a fight. And, more than that, I want it for me.”

Wash waited, because Tucker seemed to hesitate over his next words before he spoke them.

“I might be going home soon.”

Wash tensed, first at the words then again as the meaning hit him, bringing with them a memory of a conversation they’d had a while ago — one that had confirmed Wash’s thoughts about Tucker and at the same time doubled his protectiveness of him. It seemed to serve the same purpose now. He didn’t think he could have gotten any more protective, but the reminder that there were threats to Tucker outside of this place, outside of Wash’s reach,  made him clench his fists.

He still hadn’t really said anything, but it seemed like Tucker didn’t need him to. He moved back in front of Wash and held out a hand.

“I know it’s not easy, but I just need you to try. For me.”

For him. For him, so that he had a chance, so that he could have some sort of defence, could protect himself if Wash ever wasn’t there—

So that he could survive. Wash took his hand and got to his feet, then grit his teeth and fell back. Wordlessly, Tucker mimicked his stance, and a quiet, mutual understanding filled the air. This time, when they began, Wash _focused._  As they repeated it, time and time again, Wash lunging forward and Tucker doing his best to block, to dodge, to avoid, to try and anticipate if Wash would come after him again, or if he’d fall back and let Tucker make a move—

He focused.  _For_ _Tucker_.


	31. the eyes of the devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for your support <3 hope you'll still love me when the shit hits the fan

Before Wash knew it, it was dinner.

He stopped at the sound of his stomach gurgling, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since the previous day. Even when he’d been hiding out, he’d snuck in a meal at least once a day, so he pulled back out of his position and gestured for Tucker to do the same.

“What?” Tucker asked, suddenly reassessing himself, tightening his stance and frowning in confusion. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just time to eat.”

“Oh.” Tucker dropped his guard and looked around as if he just remembered where they were. “Fuck, already?”

Wash nodded. “It’s vital for you to get food into you now, to replenish the energy you’ve used. It was no small amount.”

“So much,” Tucker agreed, his chest still rising and falling faster than usual. He took one step forward and groaned. “Wow. You really don’t feel it till after, huh?”

“Adrenaline tends to do that, in my experience. I wasn’t sure how it would be for you.”

“I’ll tell you how: _ow.”_

Wash blinked. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tucker grumbled. “I’ll be better when I get some food in me, and a good shower, and…”

He trailed off, and it took Wash a second to realise he was eyeing him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Tucker said, and there was a note of something in his voice that caught Wash’s attention.

“What?” he asked again, a frown pulling at his lips.

“Nothing,” Tucker shot back, before he relented. “No, seriously, it’s nothing. Just nice to think that the days from now on will actually have you in them.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Whereas before it was like, oh, will I see Wash at showers, I wonder if he’ll turn up to dinner, and if I didn’t see you all day the only definite thing I had to look forward to with you was just before bed.”

Wash nodded, hesitantly, but Tucker shook his head.

“Never mind, dude. I’m just trying to say that it’s good spending time with you again.”

He moved ahead of Wash, and of all the things today that should have made him self-conscious — the shameless contact, pressing against each other at every opportunity like they wouldn’t get anymore, the easy communication, the secrets passed between them, the _kissing_ — it was that simple statement that made Tucker embarrassed.

For some reason, it made Wash’s cheeks flush scarlet, too.

“I— I like spending time with you too!” he called, and hurried after him.

* * *

 And he _did._

It was beyond easy to lose himself when he was around Tucker, to lose track of time and place and meaning, to escape from the relentless spiralling in his head and let everything fall away to leave one thing: Tucker. When they were alone, he’d take up every corner of Wash’s mind, fill his thoughts and dreams and drive his behaviours, because the possibilities were captivating and Tucker was only encouraging it.

Wash had forgotten just how _good_ it could be, how easy, and how tempting it was to shake off the weight of everything that had pressed down on him when he’d pulled himself away from everyone.

And although he stubbornly denied it to himself, he knew that he did shake some of it off, just a little. Some of the edginess slipped from his actions, and while he was still wary, he wasn’t as constantly jumpy and paranoid that every person was a threat, that around every corner was the unknown.

Yes, he was still on edge from the other night, from the abrupt and frustrating realisation that someone _was_ watching him, and he wasn’t quite sure he’d get over the fact that it hadn’t been _him_ who noticed, but the events that had occurred surrounding that had changed things.

Fundamental things; just a little, just enough.

He was still overly cautious, still seeking out every pair of eyes that he felt on him, still looking too long at anyone who glanced twice at Tucker. Yet, his trust in Tucker and their progression meant a lot, because he trusted Tucker more than anybody, and with that came a certain sense of relief when he was with him, a sharing of the load that had plagued him over the past few weeks; a burden that was no longer his alone to carry.

Reluctantly, he also had to admit that Doc had been right, too. He’d been too focused on trying to see __everything__ , too caught up in trying to watch every angle at once, that as soon as he was able to lean back a little and reassess it from a different perspective, he began to realise how much had slipped through his fingers.

How much he’d _deteriorated._

With Tucker next to him everywhere he went once again, he started to see the things that he’d been blinded to, or hadn’t quite been able to figure out. The eyes that he felt on his back he could now, _finally,_  trace to their source — to the occasional boy who’d look up when he’d enter a room or watch him as he walked down a hall. He noticed the same boys, a pattern emerging, and once he’d identified that, it all seemed to become clearer.

 _Small_ things, he noticed. Not as bad as he’d thought.

It took him a while to reach that conclusion, and even longer to accept it. To understand that he wasn’t always being watched every second of every day, and that he might not even ever have been followed. That only sometimes did the bad feeling he had meant actual trouble. That he really had lost himself in his self-chosen solitude, and in turn, made everything a dozen times worse for himself.

Because as he began to determine the extent of which he was being watched, he couldn’t deny that Tucker had been right, and the reality sunk in that he had lost some of his wits to his paranoia.

And Tucker, _Tucker_  had realised almost it immediately, had begun to suspect from the first real talk he had with Wash — had started to see something straight away that Washington hadn’t noticed all along.

The confidence he’d lost the night Doc had pointed out he’d been watched didn’t come back. If anything, it continued to wear away in the face of his more recent realisations, and it made things more difficult for him.

He _wanted_ Tucker around now, not just for all the infinite reasons that he wanted Tucker himself, but because it was a relief to breathe again from under the great weight that he’d only just realised had been crushing him. With Tucker, things started to reorient again. He started to attend meals regularly, spend his free time not alone, with Simmons or Tucker or even Donut. He’d begun to spend rec and exercise hour training with Tucker, which meant less time shooting up with Grif, a win and a loss for both of them. 

He’d started calling it training instead of teaching, because he didn’t feel like he was just _enough_  to teach anyone. Not now. Not when he’d had to call into question his own instincts, his own interpretation and perception of everything, and what he’d determined reality. 

It was something that Tucker had caught onto, and when they’d been practicing on the third afternoon, he’d confronted him about it.

“You know, you _are_ teaching me,” he’d said, and Wash had shaken his head.

“It’s training. I’m — I’m still training, too.”

“For _what?”_  

“For anything. It’s still training, even if it’s for myself.”

In the end, Tucker had somewhat understood. Wash had his ownhurdles to overcome when it meant coming face to face with Tucker in a fight, even if it only was practice. He’d slowly come to terms with the fact that Tucker _could_ get hurt, would _let_ himself get hurt, and found that when he put his mind to it, he was actually a good student.

They were still careful, though, in all regards. Both in training, and just between themselves. Training was a cautious affair for Wash — he hated the feeling of his fists on Tucker’s skin, hated hearing the soft grunts of pain, and hated what it told him about Tucker that he wished he didn’t have to know.

But he had to know, even if there were a million other ways he’d rather have figured it out. It was necessary for Tucker, so that they could work around it, so he supposed it was more that he hated what it was.

 _What it_ _was _,__  being—

Something dark. To Wash, it was the identifiable pattern of actions that he did that Tucker reacted to, that made him freeze up, stutter to a stop, catch his breath in his chest and not blow it back out again for a long time — what Wash could do that made him _scared._

Wash just hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t expected it, and so he hadn’t been prepared for it, had thought that with Tucker’s easy agreement of the fact that he would be hurt, the biggest obstacle they would face would be Wash’s own reluctance to hurt him.

In a way, it still was the biggest obstacle they faced, because Tucker still climbed to his feet and motioned to resume as if nothing had happened when something most definitely had. That left it up to Wash to call it, to stop and rewind and figure out what the _fuck_ he’d just done to make Tucker skitter back from him with his eyes wide and his hands out defensively in front of him.

He discovered, the hard way, that he could hurt Tucker without actually hurting him.

Because it was rarely that he’d actually caused him significant pain, and it wasn’t then that it happened. It broke down into simpler things: if Wash gripped Tucker too tight, he realised, Tucker would freeze. Not when he _hit_ him, it wasn’t even when he accidentally hurt him, it was when he gripped his biceps or his wrists with any degree of force.

Tucker tried to hide it, tried to recover a second too late, would catch himself and try and resume what he’d been doing before Wash had unintentionally short circuited his thought process.

Before Wash, he came to realise, restrained him. It wasn’t just the grip — once, he discovered, only __once —__ it was being held down, being pinned, in any sort of form that Tucker couldn’t immediately struggle free from. It was when he couldn’t escape that Tucker panicked, tried to bite down the convulsive cry that sometimes threatened to break its way out of his throat, and left him paler and shaking afterwards.

From then on, Wash had been careful. He’d recognised what had happened immediately, even if he hadn’t completely understood it. He’d seen enough to know that no matter what Tucker said afterwards, he had to read between the __‘_ It’s fine _’__ s and the ‘ _Don’t worry about it’_ s to know that something in his movements, in pinning Tucker to the ground and holding him there, had terrified him.

After all, he’d seen it: the shimmering, raw fear in Tucker’s wide eyes, and it had gazed right through him and into his soul.

He understood why it would terrify _him,_ but with Tucker, it was something else. He thought of the nightmares that haunted Tucker every night, thought of the darkness that would creep into his gaze and his words at seemingly innocuous times, and decided that it wasn’t enough that he promised not to do it again. He began watching Tucker in training, searching for everything that he would give away, and compared the pattern he showed to Wash’s own.

And what he saw, he hated, with a raw, unmuted fury of his own. He already knew that Tucker had been hurt, more than he should have and more times than he could count, but he’d never _shown_ it quite like he did when they trained. And it stuck with Wash, like a bad dream that he couldn’t shake off, so that he ended every session with pulling Tucker close and just holding him.

_Whatever has happened to you, you didn’t deserve it._

“People are gunna see,” was the only protest Tucker ever murmured, and Wash had responded with a kiss pressed softly into his hair. That was that. Tucker seemed to understand that Wash needed it, for whatever reasons he thought that Wash needed it for, and Wash pretended that he believed Tucker when he said that the only reason he allowed it every time was for Wash himself.

He didn’t really bother, though. Seemed to know that Wash didn’t need to hear any protests, and that he just wanted them to fill the air with something other than the sounds of violence, the occasional drip of blood, Tucker’s pain.

He wanted instead to fill it with the happy noises that Tucker made, the small _mmms_ that Wash could draw from his throat when he kissed his way down it; the rumbles of quiet laughter as they murmured to each other while their sweat dried and their adrenaline faded away.

_I’m going to keep you safe Tucker, I promise._

And so that was the other area they were cautious in. For more reasons than Wash had expected, beyond his own hesitance and personal issues, they explored each other slowly, carefully. The level they’d found was stable, and they stayed on it, content with what they gave and got from one another. Wash had other issues to deal with before he wanted to try facing anything more.

Tucker, for his endless euphemisms and immodest jokes, for what Wash had learned and what he still didn’t know, for all of it and everything—

He seemed to feel the same.

* * *

Before Wash let too much time go by, he busied himself with trying to make amends. He apologised to Caboose, who was miffed at his previous distance but pleased that he’d returned, and eventually gave him an uncomfortably long hug. Wash had laughed and patted Caboose on the back and waved Tucker off when he offered to get a crowbar to pry them apart… and oddly enough, resisted the urge to clutch at Caboose when he finally pulled away.

There was something about just being touched, in a way that didn’t mean to hurt him or cause him harm, that made him want to close his eyes and lean into it. Want to just _give_ himself to it, and the soaring hum of happiness that seemed to vibrate through him.

For Sarge, Wash used Donut’s services for the first time, his _safe_ services, and cashed in his _first-time-free_ card to buy him a peace offering: a Godzilla book, which Sarge had graciously accepted.

“The Japanese had the right idea,” he’d said, gruffly. “Build a giant lizard to destroy their city and start over.”

“That’s _not_  what happens, Sarge, not even _close,”_ Grif had chipped in —

— and to Grif, Wash had eventually swallowed some of his pride and offered his Sunday breakfast tray, the one with the golden wedges.

“Well, I mean, you didn’t _have_ to… no take backs though.” Grif had begun shovelling them into his mouth. “And this doesn’t mean we’re cool.”

It meant that they were cool enough. Grif had been watching them carefully since the day that Tucker had sent him off, but he hadn’t needed to — the change between Wash and Tucker, between Wash and _everything,_ was clear. Something had happened, but something _good,_ and even if Grif wasn’t totally convinced, he couldn’t complain about it when it meant less drama.

So Wash’s peace offering succeeded, and the tension dissipated, but it was still too soon for either of them to make a move to rekindle the beginnings of the friendship they’d had. 

He picked up his friendship with Simmons far easier than he’d expected. A few grumbled complaints —  _ _“_ Could have given us a proper explanation, jackass _”__ and __“_ You know, you’re lucky I’m such a forgiving guy _,__ ” — and they picked up right where they left off. Wash searched for the perfect gift for him, had a rough idea in mind, but wanted to narrow it down before he made the decision because it was important to him.

 _Simmons_  was important to him, and Wash fell back into spending more time with him on occasion, when Tucker would leave him to disappear into his hideouts with Grif.  

On the outside, it was good. On the surface, things were fine, to the extent that they could be, but the few times that Wash __did__ see someone looking his way, and the uneasy prickle of paranoid began to crawl through him again, he was reminded of just what he was still avoiding.

It wasn’t entirely his fault. The sudden, abrupt readjustment to the routine he’d had _before_  the Locus incident and the resulting withdrawal took a lot of time, a lot of energy, a lot of focus. Whatever he had left seemed to go straight to Tucker. Between meeting some aspects of the juvie schedule, such as meal times and showers, and the training schedule he’d adopted with Tucker, his days seemed to fly by.

Add the time he had with Tucker, the _real_ time, _their_ time, free of the stress and difficulty that came with training… and there really wasn’t much room for thinking, either. Tucker took up his days again, training and touches and shy smiles and hope, and Wash knew he’d probably do anything if it meant they could keep spending that time together.

It was nearly addictive, the way Tucker’s touch, his closeness, his warmth seemed to wrap around Wash and hold him tight.

Why would he ever _want_ Tucker to stop burying his head in Wash’s chest and press against his side? Why would he ever __want__ to push him away when he got close, when he made Wash’s heart pound just from his proximity, and when he could feel from the pulse point on Tucker’s wrist that he had the exact same effect on him?

Why, when Tucker could wrap a hand around Wash’s neck and pull him down so that he could reach his lips? When Wash could let him?

It had only just begun, the first tentative explorations of a world that lay out before them — a world with hidden dangers, and shrouded in a temporary veil of uncertainty, but one that was bright and promising, beyond anything he’d ever dreamed of, so breathtakingly dizzyingly _Tucker._

So the first few days following that had Wash’s full attention, and it meant that he forgot about Felix —forgot about the decision he’d reached, forgot how much was relying on his actions, just _forgot._ Let it slip from his mind to give himself something good.

Felix, however, didn’t forget about him.

* * *

 It took a coincidence for him to finally screw his head on straight again, to bring himself down from the high he seemed to be floating on, and to make him focus despite how easy it was not to.

In the end, it was really only the one thing that had always kept him grounded that reminded him of exactly what he was ignoring — his instinct. The certain, unspoken, gut driven force that was a perpetual presence in the back of his mind. It hadn’t stopped telling him that he wasn’t out of the woods yet, because the peace he’d established was still punctured by moments of unrest, of wariness, of the eyes of someone else lingering on him for too long.

The reminder that he had still made a decision, a hard one, but possibly the only one that meant he could be with Tucker, and Felix would be safe.

And it took the right moment for him to finally act: Tucker’s disappearance after breakfast to meet up with Grif, a fleeting touch of his wrist as he left that spoke more of an apology than Tucker ever really gave for where he was going, what he was doing.

“ _I won’t be long_ ,” he promised, and Wash had seen him high more than enough now, too many times, to know that he wasn’t necessarily telling the truth.

 _ _“_ I’ll see you soon _,__ ” was his response, and Tucker understood what he was saying, too.

So Wash was alone, with time to spare and Felix on his mind. He’d seen his form out of the corner of his eye too frequently that morning to brush it off, seen his hunched body and healed face pass by him in the walkway, the mess hall, the corridor. Felix hadn’t met his gaze, but Wash couldn’t help but sneak glances at him, searching for something, _anything_ to tell him what he could possibly be thinking.

Wash hadn’t even tried to speak to him since Felix had come back, and as much as he tried to tell himself that it was for their safety, he couldn’t ignore the truth that he’d been somewhat relieved not to. A pressure off his shoulders, but a growing weight in his stomach full of leaden, black guilt.

Felix had clearly paid a price for their friendship, and while Wash had been transfixed in keeping _himself_ safe, he knew it was time to step up once and for all and end it.

 _For both of them,_ he told himself, and it was true. When he wasn’t dreaming about Tucker, it was Felix’s bruised and blackened face that he couldn’t shake from his thoughts. He’d suffered, and there was no reason good enough to warrant that happening again — not to mention the possibility of losing the paranoia and watchful eyes that tried to stalk him still.

He’d made the decision before, and when he came to his senses and realised he couldn’t let it go on forever, he stood by it. However, when he actually tried to _find_ Felix, he was no longer nearby. It struck Wash as strange, that he’d seen him so frequently throughout the morning but now he could no longer be found, but he shook it off and continued searching until finally, a glimpse of a familiar half shaved head caught his attention.

As if he knew Wash had seen him, Felix abruptly walked away, and after a scan of the emptying halls around them Wash cautiously followed. The distance between them grew enough so that Washington felt somewhat better, and despite the small part of him that told him to stop, that told him to go find Simmons, take the easy path out… he persevered, and he followed Felix down the track towards the gym.

The closer they drew, the louder Wash’s voice of caution became, and before they could get too close to the gym he could no longer ignore it. He closed the distance between them rapidly.

“Felix.”

Felix spun with a flinch, the expression on his face caught midway between confusion and shock, before it twisted and morphed into something fearful.

 _“What?_  What are you doing here?” he demanded, craning his neck around behind him to see if there was anyone behind them.

Wash faltered, steadied, regained himself. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Felix stared at him, as if he couldn’t believe what Wash was saying. “You wanted to talk to me?” he repeated, his voice doubtful and full of disbelief. _“Why?”_

Wash stared back, his jaw working as he searched for words. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it hadn’t been this. It wasn’t the right time to say what he needed to say, that much was for certain, but he was already searching for a way to say it without letting this drag on for too long.

He hadn’t expected how much it would shock him to see Felix’s face up close. A clear, brutal reminder that this was _his fault,_ amplified and mirrored in Felix’s actions, buried in the way he flinched away and transparent in the fearful distrust in his voice. From this distance, he could see the depths of the faded bruising decorating Felix’s thin face, and he ached with phantom pains of his own.

He felt himself reach up to touch his own eye, the faded remnants of what had been a less severe mirror image of Felix’s, and watched as Felix’s eyes followed his movement warily.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, his voice hoarse and laden with guilt, and it took him a moment to realise just how much he meant it.

When he was caught up thinking about Tucker, and what it would take to wholly fix things between them, it had been easy to forget just what Felix had gone through.

As if he could read Wash’s thoughts, Felix gave him a long, evaluating look. Then he shook his head. Wash drew back, sure he was going to dismiss him — an option that Wash would have followed without any arguments, because it wasn’t up to him to endanger Felix like this — but instead, Felix gestured down the hall.

“Follow me,” he whispered, and started off at a quick gait, his limp more noticeable.

Wash followed. As they continued down the familiar track to the gym, he grew more and more wary. He stayed silent, for Felix’s sake, for the risk Felix was taking even being seen with him, but when they rounded the corners and Felix kept walking towards the double doors, he stopped in his tracks.

“Where are we going?” His voice betrayed the nerves dancing underneath.

Felix turned, frowning, and waved him closer impatiently. “He’s not here,” he said, and sucked on his teeth as he looked Washington up and down. “Do you think I’m fucking crazy? This is the one place I know he’s _not today.”_

He took another step closer to the doors, watching to see if Wash would follow. When he didn’t, Felix moved back, shaking his head.

“Felix—” 

“We don’t have much time. We’re safest in there, not out here. Trust me.”

 _Trust me,_  he thought, the words running around and around in his head.

If Locus wasn’t here, there wasn’t any danger that Wash couldn’t handle. That’s what he told himself, anyway, so after the split second that it took for him to run through it in his head, he followed after Felix, closing the gap between them quickly. At the entrance he stopped, one door held open by the hand that reached automatically out to stop from hitting him. Essentially, he was inside, and the few boys standing around had stopped to look at his strange entrance.

Their looks lingered, Wash noticed, and he knew his fear must have shown in his eyes when he looked at Felix. Felix closed the distance between them — he wasn’t as pierced anymore, Wash noticed, oddly, only a select few remained — and spoke to him.

“We’re not going out the back, don’t worry. And nobody here is going to say anything.”

He gave the looking boys a glower and they quickly turned away, but Washington wasn’t assured. It didn’t seem to make sense.

“Felix, wait,” he started, his voice low and unsteady. “I don’t think I should be here. I— there’s things  that I need to talk to you about, and it’s important. Believe me, or I wouldn’t be doing this.”

Felix cocked his head and stared at him, waiting, and Wash swallowed heavily. He scanned the room around them, but none of the boys were paying any attention, and he finally returned his gaze to Felix.

“I don’t think I should be here,” he repeated.

Felix met his gaze for several long, drawn out seconds, before he shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding like he wasn’t sorry at all, “but this is the only safe place for me now. It’s where Locus expects me to be, and I’m sure you understand if I don’t exactly want him to find me somewhere I’m not again.”

That made sense, but it didn’t deal with the fact that _Wash_ still wasn’t meant to be here, and he couldn’t—

“The people he has watching you won’t be here, either.”

That stunned him. Wash blinked, his thoughts racing, and it took him several attempts to hold onto the most important one.

 _“What?_ What do you know about this?”

Felix peered at him. “I know that he’s had a few people keeping an eye on you.”

Wash shook his head, blindsided at the simple confirmation. _“Why?”_

“Just a precaution, I think. He doesn’t want you getting any ideas.”

“Ideas for _what?”_

“The point is, he’s not around for a while, so we have a bit of a chance to breathe.”

“Where is he?”

“Around.” Felix gave him a flat, annoyed look. “Listen, we can’t talk for long. I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but I brought you here because this is one of the few safe places I have left. I don’t know what you think is so important to say, but… I don’t know how to say this, but it’s probably not important enough. We can’t keep risking chance encounters like this.”

Felix’s eyes were colder than Wash had ever seen them before, and it felt strange to have it directed at him. But, then again, he realised, it shouldn’t. After all, wasn’t all this his fault? Hadn’t Felix been the one to cop the brunt of his mistake in a situation that wasn’t all that different to this? Where he’d followed after him, again to apologise for something that wasn’t worth risking them for?

Though he had to admit, he hadn’t known last time exactly _what_ he’d been risking. This time, all he knew was that there wasn’t anything _worth_ risking them for, except for this last, final chance to apologise, and say goodbye to Felix for good.

Relief had started to spread through him, overwhelming the guilt and the sorrow that had burst in little bubbles in his chest, because Felix was there, in front of him, saying exactly what Wash had wanted to say. It made it easier, because if it was Felix’s decision than he had a lot less to be sorry for. Only the end of a friendship that he’d truly begun to appreciate, but that he’d already decided to end regardless.

The shadow that had been thrown over everything between them began to recede, thickening instead into an air of finality, a promise of an end, a promise of safety. Selfishly, Wash thought, a stronger chance to fix things with Tucker.

His relief was sweet, but he nearly choked on it at Felix’s next words.

“I think we need to set an organised time. We can figure out places to meet, even only briefly.”

It took a moment to sink in, and even then, Wash wasn’t sure he understood. He shook his head, trying to clear it, pulling apart the words, but he couldn’t find anything that indicated that they had any other meaning than exactly what they meant.

“What?”

“Wash.” Felix narrowed his eyes at him. “Look— I can tell what you’re thinking, but  _actually_  think about it. Do me a favour and use your brain for a moment, and tell me why I’d ask that.”

“So that we aren’t seen,” Wash answered slowly, on autopilot, the words coming even as he didn’t understand why he was saying them.

“And for me, that is a very big risk,” Felix told him, meeting his eyes meaningfully. “I know you’ve got your own problems, but…”

He let it go unspoken that his were far more dangerous. Wash’s eyes flashed away, then back to his, a question dancing on the tip of his tongue for a moment before it exploded from him, shriller and more demanding than he’d intended at the sudden turn of events.

“Then _why?_ I don’t understand _why—”_ he broke off, frustration building inside him, all traces of the relief he’d felt gone. “What could possibly make you keep going with this?”

“Why should I let Locus control me?” Felix shot back. “Why should I have to give up everything I care about just to keep him happy?”

“To keep yourself safe. Because you’re in danger from him, and nothing should make you put yourself in the way of harm like this.”

Another shake of his head. “No. There’s a lot more happening here than you know about.”

Still stunned, Wash searched for the words. “I… know enough to realise that you should give this up, Felix. Take care of yourself, and try and lay low. Keep yourself out of trouble and stay… stay safe.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Wash.” Felix’s words were heavy. “It’s not that easy. It doesn’t _work_ like that.”

“Well then—” Wash gestured around. “How does what we have tie into this? Correct me if I’m mistaken, but what happened to you happened because of me. And you knew that was a risk, but you took it anyway. You paid the price, but you still… why?”

Felix sighed, raising a hand to his ribs subconsciously as he blew out a deep breath. “It’s better if you don’t know. Not yet.”

Wash stiffened, and when he spoke it was sharpened to a razor point from the amount of times it had come off his tongue. “ _ _Why__?”

Felix shook his head. “I thought you came to see if I was okay."

“I did. And to make sure that you’re not ever put in this position again — not because of me.”

“It’s not your _fault._ Yes, it happened because he caught us, but that’s not just what it comes down to. The fact is, I was going behind his back, against his orders. _That’s_ what led to this.”

Wash slowly shook his head. “I can’t be a part of this. I’m sorry, Felix. I won’t be a reason for you to risk yourself.”

_Or me._

“Don’t you _see?_  It’s going to happen regardless of whether it’s you or not. It doesn’t _matter.”_

“Then take away one more reason why!”

Felix stared at him. It was clear that he knew that Wash was at the end of his rope, the end of _their_ rope, because he had stated in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t do this anymore. For Felix’s sake, but he was aware that Felix knew it was for his sake, too.

After a long moment, Wash’s tight grey eyes unrelenting against Felix’s pleading golden ones, Felix dropped his gaze.

“I really didn’t want to tell you,” he said, quietly.

Something in Felix’s words raised every alarm he had, and it took a long second for Wash to regroup himself enough to speak.

“Tell me _what?”_

Felix’s eyes were wide and imploring. “Can’t you just trust me?” he asked, but Washington didn’t even know what he was asking him for anymore.

“I’m sorry, Felix,” he said again, and it was true.

He was sorry. It _hurt,_ no small degree of guilt, of pain, of apology, but it didn’t take away from the fact that he knew it was the right choice. He steeled himself against the guilt and the sorrow aching in his chest, the hurt and the sadness at such an abrupt, uncertain, unhappy ending, and he stepped back and began to turn away.

“Wash, wait,” Felix said, but his voice had changed.

It had dropped into a resigned, bleak tone that had Wash’s stomach turning for different reasons. His voice was heavy, weighed down with the promise of something _bad,_ and Wash wished he’d left before he’d heard it because he knew, with no degree of doubt, that whatever Felix was about to say was something he wouldn’t want to hear.

“I’ll tell you,” Felix’s voice rung out behind him, still flat and empty. “Just… you have to listen all the way through the end. You have to promise you’ll let me explain. Just listen. Try to understand. And for what it’s worth in advance, I’m sorry.”

Wash was thrown. Felix didn’t give him a chance to say anything, immediately launching into it, and he wondered why it felt like with Felix, he never really ever had a choice.

“I would have told you sooner, but I couldn’t. I knew you wouldn’t understand — you were so paranoid of everything, and we started off on such a bad foot that I didn’t want to ruin it. A big part of me just wanted to get to know you, because I knew that we were brought together by such an unlikely coincidence that I wouldn’t get the chance again.”

Wash waited, his jaw tense.

“I mean, I did want to gain your friendship, once I actually _met_ you. I admit, I was curious, interested in you from what I’d seen and heard — you didn’t make any sense. I’d hear one thing, see another,” he explained, at Wash’s sharp look, and some of his normal tone was coming back, shining through the bleakness. “But you’ve got something in you, Wash, I’ve said it all along. Even your friends have it, as much as I don’t like to admit it. Something different than the rest of this place.”

“I don’t understand.”

Felix squeezed his eyes shut, a small wince giving him away. “Something different than this,” he repeated, and fell silent.

He glanced around, at the room around him, and at first Wash thought that he was talking about where they were, what went on here, but a moment later he looked down at his hands, at the body that was no doubt still coloured with fading bruises beneath his shirt, before he lifted his head and met Wash’s eyes. The look he gave said it all.

But Wash still didn’t understand. “Whatever you’re saying, you’re different from it too,” he said, uncertain, still searching for a way to leave before it got worse.

Felix nodded. “Maybe. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to it. Like I think that one day, I could get a piece of it.”

“I’m sorry, but you’re still not telling me anything. Felix, this has to…” He was tired of mysteries, tired of secrets, of being kept from what was going on and from having to keep it from others in turn. It was the end of the line for him, the promise of finality that had given him a breath of relief before plaguing him now.

And Felix wasn’t telling him anything.

Something in his eyes must have given him away, because Felix swallowed, heavily, and took a deep breath. “If I stay here, I’m going to die.”

Silence.

Wash was stunned. He said nothing, unable to, as Felix lowered his gaze to the ground and let the words sink in. Slowly, slowly, Wash processed the words that had slipped between his ribcage like a knife.

_“What?”_

“It’s not that straightforward, but it’s pretty much what it comes down to,” Felix continued, softly. His eyes shone when they met Wash’s, too wet. “If I stay where I am, well. It’s only a matter of time.”

Finally, Wash reacted, breaking the stillness that he’d frozen into to shake his head — in denial, or disagreement, he didn’t know. His mind was drawn inwards, the situation asserted itself again, more firmly, reminding him of the danger he was in… and the danger that Felix was.

It wasn’t Felix himself that was the danger, he knew, it was everything that came with him. But, at that time, in that moment, it seemed one and the same, and he wanted nothing more than to just cut everything off and leave.

“Why?” he asked, instead. It was all he could ask, and he owed Felix that.

Felix winced, and Washington knew what he was going to say before he said it, realised he’d known it the whole time. “Locus,” he confirmed, and Wash wished with all his might that he’d never heard that name in his life.

“I—  _ _w__ _ _hy_?_ ”

Broken, fearful. He didn’t know _why_ Locus did the things he did, but Felix had to.

_One and the same._

Felix swallowed. “This is where it gets difficult. Do you know that Locus gets out soon?” The words were somehow offhand, as if he was mentioning it casually, as if it didn’t make Wash blink in shock and scramble for words. “A few weeks, I think. Give or take. Well, I say gets out, but really, he turns eighteen. Officially, at least, because unofficially, he’s… well, he’s older. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that when he turns eighteen, they’re taking him straight from here into jail.”

“So what?”

“You don’t get it?” Felix seemed genuinely surprised. “You don’t think he’ll just… leave, quietly, without a fuss? Do you?”

Wash didn’t want to admit to himself that he knew the answer to that. Instead, he grasped onto what Felix had reluctantly admitted to him.  “You thought I could help you? What _exactly_ do you think he’s going to do?”

Felix spoke slowly. “He’s mentioned… I don’t think he’s going to go down without a fight. I don’t know __what__ he’s got planned, but it’s something bad, and I think he wants to me to be part of it. Like a fucking _suicide_ pact, but one I don’t get any choice in.”

Wash reached up and pressed his palms to his temples, trying to calm the raging storm of emotions that had formed into a sharp, stabbing headache within his skull.

“Jesus,” he murmured, and the sound of his own voice nudged him back into reality. “I don’t — how did you think…”

“I’m sorry,” Felix said, helplessly. “I just thought… if I could get away from him for just long enough, I’d be safe. That it wouldn’t come to anything, and I could just shift, sort of, to you. Whoever of your friends would take me, too. That that’s all it would be, and that that would be okay with you, because it wouldn’t put anyone in danger.”

Wash understood what he was saying. He also understood that it wasn’t likely going to go down like that, because it involved _Locus._ Felix’s next words seemed to reflect his thoughts.

“But, I won’t deny it. I hoped that if it came down to it… you might try and help me, too.”

Wash felt sick. Apart from his throbbing head, his stomach was revolting against him, every physical signal in his body telling him what he already knew, what Felix wasn’t saying — that this was a bad situation, a very bad one, and he’d been pulled down into it like a drowning man into darker depths.

“I’m sorry,” Felix said again. “I didn’t mean for you to get so involved. I only wanted to be able to shift over to you, have _some_ protection during, after, _whatever,_ and maybe even make an actual goddamn _friend—”_

Although Wash understood, could see the helplessness and guilt behind Felix’s burning eyes, he couldn’t help the anger that rose up in him. “You— you befriended me so you could try and useme as — as some sort of _shield?_ Against _him?_ If anything happens, I can’t doanything, Felix,” he spat, the truth ringing round in his head painfully.

The fact that there was something he had no chance against killed him to admit, because he knew that if it was in the cells, he would have met his end to a man who wouldn’t have thought twice. Locus would have pulled him apart if he had the chance. Wash realised that part of why he felt so sick was because Locus still would, and the more time he spent with Felix, the more likely it was to happen.

Yet, looking at the pale, shadowed face before him, he realised that was how Felix felt, and any chance Wash had was probably a hundred times better than Felix’s.

“I understand if you want to distance yourself from this,” Felix said, quietly. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this. If you want to stay away and focus on looking after yourself, I understand. I don’t blame you. I just… I had to tell you. So you knew, and you understood, and just in case anything happened.”

Wash had opened his mouth to agree, to take the escape he’d been desperately wishing for the entire time, but he cut himself off. He had to consciously shut his mouth again, holding back the words that would have been the easiest, and the _safest,_ to utter.

Instead, he thought it through. Another shiver of unease crept through him. Ignoring his instincts went, quite literally, against his nature. When they’d served him so well and kept him alive for this long, it pained him to repress them, and even more so to go against them.

Yet how could he blame Felix, when he was just trying to survive? When the guilt he felt for dragging Wash into the mess was real, because he’d felt like he’d had no other choice? When he’d hoped from the start that it wouldn’t come to it, that there was even a chance that it still might not, and he’d viewed Wash as a lifeline?

Wash could almost understand, but he also understood that it felt like poison instead.

“Just know there’s a chance that I’m wrong. And that beyond _needing_ you, I— I _wanted_ it, too. Wanted that something different. Wanted… a chance.”

There seemed to be finality in that, so Wash took it, and turned on his heel to go. He made it to the door without stopping, and it was only when he reached out towards it that Felix spoke again.

“I’ll make sure it’s clear.”

Wordlessly Wash stepped to the side in agreement, out of line of sight of the doors as Felix pulled them open. He hesitated for several long moments half out of the doors, long enough to make Wash’s stomach turn, before he slowly drew back in.

“Okay,” he said, but when Wash reached for the door, he stopped him once more. “One last thing,” he said, and looked like was considering his words for a long moment.

Wash dimly felt himself twitch, but Felix was quick to speak.

“If you want to talk about this, meet me in the first room we went to, tomorrow during rec hour.”

His words were quiet, filled with resignation. It rang through Wash’s ears, filling him with guilt he wished he didn’t feel, wished he didn’t deserve, and as soon as he’d finished speaking Wash had burst through the doors and started to run.

* * *

When Wash worried about losing his edge, feared his senses were fading with time and lack of use and his instincts were leading him astray, he was for the most part wrong. There were only several times that that usually occurred, when he was overwhelmed or panicked, or on the slippery edge of a deep slope down into an anxiety attack.

As he ran from the gym, the rhythmic pounding of his feet working to clear his brain bit by bit and allow him to think, to _breathe,_ it happened. He was overwhelmed, and panicked — not as badly as he’d feared, but enough.

He missed it. Something vital. Something that would have changed everything and prevented an onslaught of pain and suffering of someone he cared about most.

 _Simmons._  

His terrified face, peering out around the corner as Wash raced past it. Wash didn’t hear his fearful gasp, didn’t see him press against the wall as he passed, nor did he see him nearly crumble to the ground when Wash was out of sight, holding himself shakily up on the wall.

If he did, he might have known that Simmons had followed him. He would have known that Simmons had seen him go into the gym with Felix, had waited out of sight, too scared to go any further and too worried about Wash to go back. 

And he would have known that the last thing that Simmons had seen before Wash had burst out of the gym was Felix leaning out of the doors, staring straight at him, a malicious smile slowly spreading on his face.

When he’d ducked back into the hall, Simmons’ only thought was to go, run, _move,_  but he hadn’t gotten far enough before Wash had gone running blindly out. And now, as Wash slowed to a jog to travel through more populated halls, Simmons was left staring where he’d disappeared. He barely had time to tremble before the door had opened once more, and he froze again, unable to summon the courage to move as fear seized his body into a statue of the damned.

Felix rounded the corner, two boys in his wake. Their shadows loomed up over him, and Simmons couldn’t help but cower away in terror.

“You’ve just made a very big mistake,” Felix promised him, still smiling, and dragged Simmons into the gym.


	32. 'cos you know and i know in the morning i'll be dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: abuse, references to self harm

“Get him in here,” Felix ordered, his voice cool and collected, no trace of the desperation or bleak emptiness that he’d shown Wash only moments ago.

They were at the doors to the gym, and Simmons was putting up a surprising amount of fight. It wasn’t any conscious decision on his part, although he knew he had to get his brain to work again —instead, he’d immediately gone into a state of panic, the cold frozen fear receding to leave him flailing, fighting, lashing out wildly in desperation. He struggled, because the doors were looming up on him and —

_— and once he was inside he was done for._

He found his voice again and all of a sudden he was shouting, a fearful yell tearing from him in a voice so panicked it was unfamiliar and it took a second to realise it was _him._

“ _Stop!_ Wait, wait! _What are you—_ ”

A hand clamped over his mouth, hot, meaty, suffocating.

 _Too big to be Felix’s,_  and Simmons didn’t realise that was a bad thing until Felix slipped into place behind him to flip his switchblade to Simmons’ throat with a quiet _click._

“If I were you, I’d be very quiet,” he advised softly, and all at once Simmons stopped struggling.

No words were said as Felix stepped back, gestured tightly towards the room at the back of the gym. Simmons didn’t resist as he was dragged forwards, his brain now completely overwhelmed, circling around and around.

Felix had just pulled a knife on him. Felix wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat. Felix had just pulled a knife on him and Felix wouldn’t hesitate to _slit his throat—_

The same panic that had him thrashing wildly before was now seeping a cold, dangerous numbness into his limbs. He was quickly growing paralysed, and he could see his last chances to escape flying past as he was shoved closer and closer to the back door. Then he was at it and adrenaline burst through his veins, chasing away the numbing cold. In one vital last ditch effort, he tore his head to the side, one final scream ripping itself from his throat.

“ _ _Wash!”__

There was no warning. Felix flew forward with a vicious kick and planted his foot in the square of Simmons’ back with a _crunch_ that forced all the air from his body and sent him flying to the floor. His glasses flew off, clattered to the ground, and as Simmons joined them moments later Felix followed through with another solid kick.

The air suddenly seemed too thick to reach his lungs. He sucked in panicked breaths, fighting to draw them in over the unbelievable pain.

Felix stood above him, looking down. Watched him gasp for air and nodded. “That’s better,” he said, evenly, no trace of the fury had that had flashed across his face at Simmons’ cry. “Get him up.”

Simmons didn’t react as his arms were grabbed and he was dragged through the doorway. Once he was through, he was thrown violently forward, and the cold concrete welcomed him once more. When his head stopped spinning, he tried to raise his head and look around, but everything he saw in the short time before the door shut ominously behind him was enough for him to regret it. It was pointless. The room around him was empty.

Apart from a few pieces of furniture against the walls, there was only a dim light above. A metallic scent lingered in the air, and Simmons was sure that if he could see a little better, he would see the darkened patches stained into the concrete. It would have made him sick, the thought of someone else’s blood so close to him, _touching_ him, even if it was dry —

But he had no time for that, when he could soon be adding his own life force to the stained floor.

Slowly, easily, Felix knelt next to him, and every thought in Simmons’ brain dissipated in fear. “Now then,” he began, and he closed his switchblade again thoughtfully, “that was a nice little trick you pulled back there, calling for Wash. But I assure you, he’s far from here now, with a lot more to think about than where his worthless little friend might be.”

Simmons didn’t have time to make sense of Felix’s words, because a hand had suddenly planted itself in his hair and was yanking his head up.

“And,” Felix hissed, “I _assure_ you, you’ll never do anything like that again.”

“I won’t.”

The promise left him without his knowledge, a thoughtless agreement to stop the pain radiating sickeningly from his scalp.

“Oh, I know,” Felix said, and his voice left no room for doubt.

Simmons heard himself whimper, distantly, because the hand pulling at his hair had released him and his head had dropped straight onto the concrete. The world was swimming around him, and he might have fainted if Felix hadn’t gestured at the two boys to haul him to his feet.

Another small noise of fear escaped him, but this time Felix heard it. He looked down at Simmons, and Simmons looked up to a knowing smile, the flash of pointed canines as his lips drew slowly back over his teeth in a horrible mimicry of the one he’d seen before.

Felix’s quiet murmur carried death and despair. “This is going to be _fun.”_

 _Run,_ something in his brain whispered, and he so desperately wanted to, wished his body would obey him, but he didn’t think he physically could. His throat was so tight and the world was spinning sickeningly around him and how could he move when he could barely even _breathe—_

Felix disappeared behind him and something cold and sharp pressed against him and the world stopped spinning on its axis.

Silence. No words escaped him, but his tears continued to overflow, spilling warm and salty tracks down his cheeks. He shook, simply, silently, with fear and pure shock at the reality that he’d been thrust into so quickly that it seemed surreal. Like a nightmare, but one that was far too relentless and terrifying to deny.

So quickly, he’d ended up alone in small room — at the mercy of Felix, who _had_ no mercy.

_Why?_

The question begged at him, insistent despite that he couldn’t bring himself to ask it. He already knew, could almost realise the connection that was blatantly obvious, one half of it in front of him, the other half long gone, past him in a whirlwind of hurried footsteps and blind ignorance and _why hadn’t Wash seen him?_

A small drop of blood rolled hotly down his back where Felix’s knife was pressing into his spine. Simmons waited, unable to do anything else, and after what felt like an eternity the pressure lightened and Felix appeared in front of him again.

“You’re quiet now.”

A beat passed, the blade flashed by his face, and Simmons realised he was supposed to respond.

“Hmm?” Felix leaned in and raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t take his eyes off the switchblade as he began to spin it around his fingers.

Simmons wanted to close his eyes, but he was afraid of what could happen if he did. There was nothing he could do, no way for him to swallow down his fear, to reduce the lump of terror that was taking up his whole throat and give an answer that he knew wouldn’t mean anything.

There was nothing he could say, and so there was no way for him to answer, despite everything in him that told him he had to. He was already scared, so scared it hurt, and it mingled with the shock to drown out everything else around him. He couldn’t begin to think _why_ this was happening, couldn’t think beyond the fear encapsulating him at the reality of the situation he was in.

The thought flooded him with more cold fear. He hadn’t been truly hurt yet, but the look on Felix’s face promised pain and Simmons didn’t even know why this was happening to him. Another tear ran down his cheek and dripped onto the floor, and Felix shook his head and let loose a peal of laughter that sounded all too _real,_ all too  _delighted._

“Come on, now. You’re making this too easy! Man, you _really_  need to toughen up.” 

Simmons said nothing, but Felix wasn’t waiting for an answer.

“I mean, if just this has you crying, I don’t know what to say! You’ve got a _lot_ to learn.” The unspoken threat hung menacingly in the air, before Felix leaned in closer, his cool breath washing over Simmons’s face. “I mean, if I pulled out your teeth one by one, _that’s_ something to cry about. Or if I cut off your fingers, or even just yanked out your nails… but I have to admit, that’s all pretty boring. So… _traditional,_ ya know? Of _course_ we could go through those old motions, but I’m sure you and I can figure out something much more interesting if I don’t get what I want.”

 _What you want,_ he thought, tried to shape it into a question that he could voice aloud; but Felix was still so close to him, so goddamn close, his lips only mere inches away, his golden eyes staring into Simmons’ watery ones until it was too much and Simmons had to pull his gaze away.

A moment later, regret flooded through him, cresting easily along the top of a tidal wave of fear. The light-hearted look on Felix’s face had vanished, and when he spoke next, his voice had turned flat, cold, and deadly.

“Look at me.”

Simmons didn’t want to. He was terrified of what he’d find there, too paralysed with fear because he already knew what he’d see. After all, hadn’t he already seen it? Hadn’t he looked Felix in the eyes and seen it lurking there in the depths, cold and certain?

He had, so he couldn’t bring himself to meet the look in Felix’s eyes that promised he would scream.

“Simmons,” Felix said again, but his voice was back to a soft concern. “You should probably work with me here, just a word of advice. This is just fun, but if you _really_ piss me off, well. I think the situation speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

It did.

“So look at me.”

Simmons trembled, but that was the only response he gave. He wasn’t Wash, he couldn’t do this. He wasn’t familiar with pain, with real fear, and he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know whether to obey, or to try and tough it out, because in the end he knew it didn’t matter. He was just trying to convince himself that he could have any impact on the situation, when he knew he had none.

Felix was in control here.

As if he knew what he was thinking, Felix sighed, and one hand crept around the back of Simmons’ neck. A moment later, Simmons was forced forward. He closed his eyes in preparation for his face crunching into the concrete below, a breath sucking in over his teeth, but he was abruptly pulled to a halt inches from the cold ground. He waited to hear his glasses smash, but he remembered he’d lost them already, what felt like a long time ago.

“Just think of the things I could do to you,” Felix hummed, thoughtfully. “There’s really no end to it. It could go on for hours, or even just a few minutes.” He pulled him back up and waited until Simmons’ eyes focused again, and he smiled. “I could end you right now,” he stated, and Simmons didn’t have to think twice to know that it was a fact. Felix rocked back on his heels, watching him evenly. “That is,” he added, as if he’d just remembered something, “if I can’t figure out what to do with you. I can’t just let you go, obviously. After all, you were clearly here for a reason. Something to do with our good friend Wash, I presume?”

His voice wrapped around Wash’s name, dangerous and silky smooth, and Simmons felt another stab of fear go through him — this time, not for himself, but for Wash, for whatever had happened to Wash to get him wrapped up in the middle of this.

And if even Wash was caught in this, then Simmons didn’t have a chance.

He gritted his teeth, tried to stop the tears flowing from his eyes. The feeling of helplessness that had settled over him before had truly sunk in, and he knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do except wait — for Felix to tell him what he actually wanted, to stop toying with him, to give him a _chance—_

He’d prayed before, to no avail, and he’d long stopped trying; thought he’d long given up on any god that could step in and sway the path of his life. He knew it was pointless, knew it was hopeless, knew it had nothing togive him. Yet, with Felix looming above him, deadly and unforgiving, Simmons lowered his head to the ground and prayed. He didn’t know what else to do.

Felix watched him for several moments before he nodded, slowly, as if Simmons had just told him something very important. “No,” he said, considering something that Simmons had no clue about. “No, I don’t think that’s the right way to go about this. I don’t think you’re useful enough. I guess I should just kill you now.”

Simmons tried to suppress the sound of fear he made, and failed.

“A little snap of the neck,” he mused, clearly aware that Simmons was hanging on his every word. “You are looking a little… down. I can lift you _up._ Or I could give you a new smile, one that stretches from ear to ear.”

Simmons’ eyes lifted to the switchblade, dangling from Felix’s quick fingers. It seemed to glint in the dim light.

“Of course, that would be a little inconvenient. All that blood. But I’m afraid it might just be what I have to do.” Suddenly, his mouth was suddenly right next to Simmons’ ear. “You shouldn’t have been here,” he whispered, and Simmons shuddered.

Felix moved closer so that he was wrapped around Simmons’ shoulders. His words whispered themselves coldly, softly, so close it felt like his voice was in Simmons’ head, reverberating, never ending, and everything inside him screamed _wrong, wrong, wrong._ “You shouldn’t have been here," he said again, "and you’ve _never_ been here, not even when that worthless boyfriend of yours comes around and tries to profit off my fighters. If that didn’t bring you here, after all this time, it would certainly leave someone wondering what exactly _did.”_

He paused, and this time his silence was expectant, but Simmons couldn’t bring himself to say a word. He was finally realising _what_ Felix wanted with him, and he was realising he had nothing to give.

Felix brushed his fingers against the exposed nape of Simmons’ neck, and a second later his blade flashed up and pressed against it. Simmons was trapped, with Felix whispering in one ear and his knife pressed promisingly just below the other.

“You’re going to tell me what you were doing here,” Felix murmured, and the knife pressed harder at Simmons’ neck, the sharp point digging in hard enough that a drop of blood beaded up and ran down it.

 “I…” Simmons got no further than that. Fear kept his teeth clenched so tightly together that it hurt, and he couldn’t breathe with Felix so close, his breath so warm in his ear, so  _intimate._ He wondered how Tucker had ever been able to stand it.

“Simmons,” Felix said, and Simmons could feel him shaking his head next to him. “Don’t make me have to hurt you just to get you to talk. That would just be unnecessary.”

The blade twisted and Simmons gasped. His brain raced, trying to remember what Felix had asked him, what he wanted, what he could __give__ —

“It was an accident,” he managed, the words shaky and barely audible, but spoken nonetheless.

Felix cocked his head, and his lips brushed against Simmons’ ear, sending goosebumps rising up his arms and tears running down his cheeks. “An accident?” he repeated, quietly. “You mean you _didn’t_ follow us to the gym and wait outside?”

“No— _ _”__  

He didn’t get another word out before he was on his back, stunned. His head swum and his ears were ringing from the force with which his head had been smacked into the ground, but he felt a dim relief at the fact that Felix was no longer wrapped around him.

 _“Don’t lie to me _.__ __”_ _

The sudden violence scared him, but it meant he wasn’t  _there,_ on Simmons, around him. But he _was_ looming over him, his foot raised, and it was all Simmons could do to breathe—

Until suddenly, he couldn’t. Felix had placed his foot on Simmons’ chest and pressed his weight down onto it.

“I saw you,” he reminded, darkly. “I saw you outside the gym, like a filthy little _rat.”_

He pushed down even harder with his shoe, forcing the last of Simmons air reserves out of him in a sudden rush, and Simmons couldn’t have responded even if he’d tried. He’d been trying to stop it, his hands wrapped around Felix’s ankle like he could force him away with his weak, skinny arms, and his air was going faster than it should have been because he was panicking, beginning to thrash, and that was when Felix lifted his foot.

All at once, the air came rushing into Simmons’ lungs. He gasped, his head and heart pounding in tandem, and he could hear how loud his breathing was in the comparative quiet as he rasped in desperate breaths.

“So tell me. Before I get these idiots to hold you down and the _real_ fun begins. What were you doing outside my gym? I suggest you answer  _carefully.”_

Simmons sucked in a few more breaths before he swallowed. “I saw Wash…”  

Felix’s look quickly turned to sharp impatience. “And?”

“I just wanted to hang out with him—”

Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say, because Felix’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “So you followed him here? Why?” When Simmons didn’t respond immediately, he slammed a foot down an inch from Simmons’ head.

“Just— just to, I—”

“You have one chance to tell me,” Felix said, then turned to the side and barked at one of the boys. “Garren! Wrap a hand around his throat, and every time he stutters, squeeze a little tighter.”

Obediently, Garren stepped forwards. He was shorter than Simmons, but far stronger, his chest and arms rippling with muscles. As he stepped over Simmons and crouched down, he flexed his hands, and Simmons felt his heart skip beats at the size of his fingers.

The other boy fell into place on his other side and stepped on his arm to hold him down.

“Please—” Simmons started, but he was helpless as the hand wrapped itself around his throat and tightened in warning.

Felix leaned over him, wicked and malicious, and placed one delicate finger on Simmons’ chin to tilt it slightly upwards. Simmons had no choice but to meet his eyes, and Felix ignored the silent pleading there.

He tapped his finger gently. “I’ll repeat the question,” he said, in a tone that implied he wouldn’t be doing it again. _“Why_  were you here?”

“I—” Simmons cut off when the hand flexed, and was quick to try and reign his racing thoughts together into something legible. “We usually… hang out together,” he said, carefully slowly, his voice breaking repeatedly, his answer sounding embarrassing and weak. “When Tucker’s not around.”

Felix nodded to Garren and the hand tightened, and Simmons squeezed his eyes shut and felt the tears run down the side of his face.

“And?”

“And— I don’t  _know,_ I just saw him… Tucker was busy, so Wash and I usually—”

“Busy with what?”

“I don’t know." There was a moment of indecision before the hand flexed and he gasped. “I don’t! Some stuff with Grif! I didn’t mean to follow Wash, but—”  He hesitated, and he quickly regretted it when the grip tightened painfully. “I—” he managed, and it tightened even more, but now it was too tight for him to think about anything but how he was meant to breathe. “I don’t _know,”_ he wheezed, and tried to free his arms to claw at the hand around his neck to no avail.

“Really?”

He tried to shake his head, but his head was pounding so loud that it drowned everything else. Panic had kicked in, and he convulsed as he tried to suck in air, his lungs empty and hollow, the oxygen gone.

“Stay there,” he heard dimly, and it took a second to register that Felix had just ordered the boy choking him not to move.

He thrashed, ignorant to how he hurt himself, but he couldn’t pull himself free from underneath the weight pressing down on him. His eyes were wide, bulging, and he could make out the shape of Felix above him, watching him carefully. He didn’t register it, lost staring into the middle distance as his entire body burned with his need to breathe.

Darkness closed in, crept its way into the edges of his vision, and he sunk into it gratefully as soon as he realised it meant he wouldn’t have to face this anymore.

Then the hand released him, and it was a new kind of burning that burst through him as his body automatically sucked in air. He choked, coughing, but still trying to draw in any oxygen he could, his actions beyond his conscious measure. He was released, and he curled into a ball, wrapping around himself in a meagre attempt at self defense as he sucked in massive breaths of air.

“As soon as he can breathe again, repeat it,” Felix ordered, sounding uninterested.

Simmons would have sobbed if he could have, if his throat didn’t feel like it had restricted to a pinpoint and every movement caused a fresh wave of agony to shoot through him.

There were a few moments of silence, broken only by Simmons drawing in raspy breaths. He tried to keep them uneven, but Felix seemed to know as soon as he felt like he had enough oxygen to think again, because he nodded to Garren and the hand closed in on him once more.

He somehow sounded _bored._ “Just tell me, because I already know.”

“Tell you—?”

“Why’d you follow him?” The look on Simmons’ face gave the truth away, and Felix leant in, a cold amusement seeping into his tone as he spoke. “Because you saw him following me.”

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, so Simmons managed a nod. In return, he earned a short laugh, and Felix cocked his head and looked down at him with a pitying smile.

“Don’t you know I’m bad news?”

The words sent a chill down his spine, but it was nothing compared to the abrupt terror that flowed through him as his airway was clamped down on. He thrashed again, panic setting in without a second thought as his brain immediately registered the lack of air.

He felt his body straining, the entirety of his strength flowing through him in a last ditch attempt to throw them off, to free himself from the hand around his throat, to let him _breathe—_

It wasn’t enough. He gave up much faster, the darkness swooping in on him again, but once more he was pulled back from the sweet relief of nothingness by his body automatically dragging in air, keeping him alive; keeping him conscious as the hand had released him and he was able to breathe again.

“Well, this answers some questions, but something doesn’t ring _just_ quite right. We can keep this up all day, for the record. You, obviously, can’t. So, anything to add?”

“No,” Simmons managed. It felt like an insurmountable task to force the word through his raw throat and out between his panicked breaths, but he succeeded, and finally Felix seemed to accept it with a thoughtful nod.

“Okay. Then I suppose we do this the hard way,” he said, and Simmons felt his entire body drop, felt hopelessness wrap around him, feeling oddly like fingers around his throat.

Then a light hit the side of his face, and he distantly realised the door had been opened.

“I told that idiot to _watch the door_ —” Felix began to hiss, as he stood and turned to face the interrupter, before he paused. “Ah,” he said, and Simmons couldn’t even bring himself to wonder what _ah_ meant, too overwhelmed by the relief of having a few more seconds before it started again.

“Felix,” an unfamiliar voice said, “what is this?”

The tone was flat, but it had a tinge of anger underlying it, and it wormed its way into Simmons conscious and registered itself as _bad._

He cracked an eye open and tried to turn his head, but the dizziness and incessant pounding quickly forced him to give up. He focused on breathing, on the air that he still sucked desperately in, suddenly unsure when he’d be able to have something that he’d always taken for granted.

“Just a little detour,” Felix said easily. “No problem. Just something different.”

His words were vague, his tone light and tempting, but Locus didn’t fall for it for a second. “It looks to me that this _is_ a problem."

Simmons’ eyes snapped up to the body looming above him, the face, and wondered if this would be the last thing he saw. Locus looked down at him, his face expressionless, before he pulled out of view. Simmons wasn’t aware of it, but Felix was watching him very carefully. When there was no twitch, no hint or indication of recognition to show that Simmons knew or recognised Locus in _any_ way, Felix reconsidered his options.

“No, Locus,” Felix said slowly, and didn’t take his eyes from Simmons. “No, I’m thinking this could actually be a good thing for us.”

Locus fixed Felix with a cold, flat look, and didn’t look away for several moments. Then he shook his head. “ _Fix this _,”__  he said, simply, before he turned and walked out of the room.

Felix hesitated. He looked down at Simmons, then knelt down next to him, and the switchblade was back. He tapped the edge of the blade against Simmons’ cheek, then gestured to the boys, and after a moment Simmons was wrenched onto his feet.

The hands didn’t stay to support him, and he immediately crumbled, landing on his hands and knees on the cold ground beneath him. His whole body wanted to give way, to succumb to the fear that was clawing desperately at him and had seized his heart in an icy grip, but he knew if he became unresponsive, Felix would quickly grow impatient and kill him.

He was right.

Because behind his façade, Felix was annoyed. _Very_  annoyed. In one small inconvenient mistake, Simmons had created a threat, a risk to everything Felix had created. Locus had known immediately, had seen the discontentment in Felix’s eyes, and had realised what this might mean for everything they’d done.

Simmons had seen Washington and Felix together. That in itself was more than Felix wanted anyone to know. He was on a thin line, and if he had known anything about Felix’s plan, had answered any question wrong or had reacted in even the slightest bit to _Locus,_ then it would have been the end of him.

Without either of them being aware of it, Wash had saved his life.

While all that Simmons knew was that Wash was the reason he was now kept captive in the small room at the back end of the gym, and while he blamed Wash for not warning him, for not giving him any idea that just __following__  him could put Simmons into danger, it was those exact things that were the deciding factors in Felix’s decision to keep him alive.

He didn’t know a damn thing about it, so simply by being oblivious, his threat to Felix’s plan had diminished significantly. Now, he only posed a problem simply because of what he’d been unfortunate enough to see.

“Very unfortunate,” Felix murmured, testing the words out on his tongue.

As he’d hoped, Simmons looked up at him, his eyes widening and his pupils dilating even further at the softly spoken words. He was so scared, so soft and weak. He __was__ a threat, but barely. Felix didn’t pretend not to see the fearful look Simmons gave before his head dropped to the ground, but he didn’t comment on it.

He was thinking.

Killing him would be too much of a pain. Not actually doing it, of course, because Felix had been both the direct and indirect cause of more deaths than he could count. But the aftermath, which had damned him once before, would likely cause issues now.

There was a lot that he could get away with in this godforsaken detention centre, but murder wasn’t easily one of them. It would have to be untraceable, but still by his hand, because only the threat of death would likely be enough to convince anyone else to do it when there was such a high risk of getting caught. In turn, that led back to the problem itself. Except Simmons was a wild card, a known bearer of the old suicide watch, a record for attempts made in his first few months without succeeding. Felix could work with that, and  _would_ work with that if the time came, so that no longer became the biggest problem.

Felix had organised contingency plans for this kind of situation a long time ago, and although Simmons’ death would raise questions, he was certain there was nothing that would point back to him.  _Nothing,_ he thought, except _Washington._ Washington would point every finger in the world at him just based on the suspicious circumstances alone.

Felix thought it over. He could potentially work around that. In fact, if he played it just right, he might even be able to kick it all off sooner than he’d planned.

As soon as that thought registered, he was filled with an impatient anticipation. A new course of action came together in his mind, one that could be over and done with within a day, possibly two. It was so _tempting._ All his build up had been meticulous, his planning bulletproof, and he’d overcome hurdles that had seemed determined to stop him.

And he could reap the benefits now, with just a little more effort. Sure, it would take a lot of acting to convince Wash to trust him just that one last time, but he could do it. He was sure — and it would be worth it. All he wanted was a little fun, some answers to some questions that had plagued him for a while now, and to see Wash die at his hands.

He flexed them without thinking.

To finally see it happen — to see Washington fall to his knees because of _Felix._ The biggest formidable threat that Felix had faced in a long time taken apart so goddamn __easily__ , without any real trouble.

 _Today._ It could happen _today._

It almost seemed laughable.

While Washington had proved not only the biggest threat, just due to his abilities and his background, his strength and speed and intelligence, his agility and resourcefulness, his uncanny instincts that he’d pushed down time and time again because Felix had made him — he’d also been the most interesting.

Felix had anticipated a lot more difficulty than he’d had, and he had to admit, in the end it was a bit disappointing. The entire time Wash had faced him earlier, Felix’s heart had been pounding. The idea of Wash doing something that he hadn’t expected, and actually following through with it, had excited him beyond end, filled him with a rush. _This_ was what he’d wanted, a challenge, something to get his blood pumping when so very little else could.

He knew he would win. If Washington hadn’t listened, had still tried to end their friendship once and for all, Felix would have simply ended _him._

He would have sent someone for Locus, and that would have been that.

It would have been a little dissatisfying, he had to admit, although he would have at least gotten to see the last look of betrayal, the shock, the _finality_  as the realisation swirled, pulsing and blood red and forceful, until there was nothing left behind.

It was so _close._

So close, and yet still not enough. He’d deftly kept on, manipulating and twisting the world around him and the people around him, because it __wasn’t__  enough, even when it was so tempting to take the option that provided instant gratification.

Sure, it had been fun seeing how far he could take it, testing to see what reactions he could elicit and still keep him dangling along on a string, but now that the possibility for bringing it all together nowwas dangling right in front of __him__ , he was filled with impatience.

Especially because Washington’s allure was quickly fading. The possibilities were running out, the shiny newness dimming and darkening, and it made Felix angry because what it came down ot that all of it was just… _disappointing._

Considering the lengths he’d gone to in order to keep Wash in his grasp, how he’d worked and fought and _succeeded_ repeatedly to keep everything exactly how he’d wanted it, only to find that in the end, the same dangerous creeping numbness that constantly swirled around him, wearing him down, would eventually darken Washington, too.

Wash had interested him, once. Had drawn Felix in with everything about him, from how he handled his daily life so ruled by his paranoia and suspicion, to how he constantly landed himself in the middle of trouble without even the slightest intentions, to his fierce loyalty that he held for his worthless friends. He’d been a _challenge._ It had been so educational to watch him, then to handle him firsthand — dealing with the curveballs that he so constantly seemed to throw at him, as if without even trying he’d been working to dismantle Felix’s plans.

And Felix hadn’t let him.

He’d handled every surprise, every abrupt change, every unexpected turn of events with finesse and subtlety, and even in the face of Wash’s determination earlier, Felix had adapted and overcome. The story he’d made up almost made him laugh. Despite everything and every reason why not, Washington was trusting, and that was the most disappointing of all, because it meant that anything he had the potential to be was ruined.

He wasn’t as smart as he seemed, because he’d fallen for everything Felix had dangled in front of him. He wasn’t as strong, because Felix had Locus. He wasn’t as loyal, because he’d tried to end the friendship that Felix had forged through fire between them for the sake of _safety,_ and for the sake of his friends.

He wasn’t as interesting as Felix had hoped, because Felix had already won.

He’d already fooled him, convinced him time and time again with barely any effort to stay with him. Wash had fallen for every one of his ploys, despite his suspicions, and it no longer felt like a game to him. It was too _easy._

Washington was weak, inside and out, and the events of the day had proved it.

With that thought in mind, Felix reached a decision. He would kill Simmons, and he would kick off the final stage of his plan — the one that ended with Wash on his knees in front of him, choking on his own blood, the realisation of everything that Felix had done haunting him in his final moments as Felix finally brought it all to an end.

It was time for Wash to die.

He moved forward, the switchblade opening for the final time, when he stopped, a heartbeat passing as he looked down at Simmons, uncaring of the way his green eyes widened, before he reached down and secured a hand around his wrist. He flipped the switchblade closed, and with two fingers he pulled up Simmons’ sleeve, lifting it to the elbow so that he could assess what he found there.

And, just like that, a new course of action was born.

One that would keep Simmons alive, but one that would make him suffer. He'd had the beginnings of the idea before without even realising it, but with this final piece, he could play the game a little longer. A smile crept across his face, sharp edges and pointed teeth and _wicked,_ and his next words made Simmons’ heartbeat falter before it picked up rapidly in pace.

“You’ve just made things _very_  easy for me.”

Simmons’ eyes darted rapidly between Felix and the exposed skin of his arm and wrist. He wanted to say something, anything to take Felix’s predatory gaze off the numerous cuts and scars that were littered across his wrists, but he couldn’t. His voice was gone, non-existent in the face of the fear that had swept over him and reduced him to a trembling, terrified mess.

He must have made some sort of noise, because Felix lifted his eyes to focus solely on Simmons. Simmons froze, unable to look away, caught in a moment of time where he peered into depths of gold that somehow still looked like an abyss.

An abyss, teeming with monsters, shrouded in danger, and filled with the promise of bad, bad things.

That goddamned smile was back. “Well, it looks like we’re about to become  _very_ good friends.”

Simmons shuddered, tiredly, and withdrew into himself. A part of his brain still desperately wondered _why_ he was still here, when he’d recognised the intent in Felix’s movements as he’d opened the switchblade. He hadn’t been sure whether Felix could just kill him or not, but the absentminded way that Felix had flicked the blade and turned to him had told him what he didn’t want to know.

Words echoed around him, inside his head in the empty darkness he’d withdrawn into, and it took him several moments to realise that Felix was saying something.

“— got a few things to clear up. First of all, you’re going to live. So try to stop shaking so much and see if you can pay attention. Trust me, you’re going to want to listen to what I’m about to say to you. I’m only going to say it once.”

A weak, shaky nod.

“Good,” Felix said, both cheery and dangerous, and it made Simmons even dizzier than he was from his aching, pounding head. “When you get out of here, you’re going to have to be very, _very_ careful. I mean  _incredibly_ careful. Because if you make even one little slip up…” He drew his thumb across his neck and smiled apologetically at Simmons. “I’m sure you know what I’m referring to. But, for your sake, because I’m feeling generous, I’ll lay it out simply for you. You don’t say a word about what happened here. And I mean _anything_ here. You didn’t go near the gym, you were never in here, and you __never__  saw Washington with me.”

“What do you want with him?” Simmons asked, his sore throat wrapping painfully around the words and turning them rough and coarse.

The smile died from Felix’s face, and the room was suddenly very cold. “If you start asking questions,” he said, as if Simmons was an idiot, “you’re not going to get out of here alive.”

Simmons ducked his head and nodded rapidly, and stars burst painfully in front of his eyes. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking — any concern he had for Wash should have been overshadowed by everything going on here, whatever Simmons had just been caught up in the middle of. Not only what had happened to him so far, but the fact that it was because of _Wash_ that he was in here.

From the way Felix had said it, it made it sound like Washington was involved with him. That spelled something very bad indeed, but Simmons had bigger problems.

“If we’re clear on that, the next thing is that you better watch what you do. If you raise too much suspicion, or raise any red flags that might even begin to point our way, again. You die. Pretty easy to keep in mind. Do you think you can manage that?”

Again, Simmons nodded, but Felix shook his head.

“No, I don’t think you can,” he said. “Which brings me to my final point — I’m sure you know I can’t just _let_  you out of here.”

Felix’s words sparked a new wave of fear in Simmons, drawing energy from reserves he hadn’t even known that he’d had.

“What are you—”

“You’ll have to forgive me, but I just can’t imagine you getting out of here and not immediately causing problems.”

He waved the two boys forward. They’d been standing near the door, evidently unsure whether they should exit, but at Felix’s gesture they hurried forward.

“No,” Felix breathed, suddenly in his ear again, so close. “I can’t trust you, can I? If I let you out of here, the first thing you’ll do is go causing trouble.”

Simmons wanted to deny it, but he was too caught up on Felix’s words, on the _if_ that had been uttered so casually but was literally a matter of his life or death.

“So I’m taking some precautionary measures, _and_ making it easier on you.”

Simmons didn’t get a chance to ask what he meant. Garren and Ripley had arrived at Felix’s side, and they stared down at him, expressions indeterminable in the dim light. Simmons was glad. He didn’t want to know what he’d see there. He didn’t want to lose the tiny thread of hope that had looped itself around his heart, because he knew Felix could turn on him in an instant, _would_ turn on him in an instant, and for all he knew this was just another part of the game.

“Hold him down and slice him up a little,” Felix commanded, and Simmons’ attention returned to him with a sharp cry. “And _don’t_ get carried away. Make it look realistic, you idiots.”

Simmons’ stomach turned violently as he realised what Felix had been planning. Realised that the game he was playing was much, much bigger than he’d thought.

“No,” he tried, but now his voice was faint and weak even to his own ears, and it went ignored by everyone as his arms were pulled away from his body.

His semi healed scars ached in protest, as if aware of what was to come. He felt sick, and he wanted to close his eyes and will it all away, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the dirty looking blade that the boy on his left pulled from his sock. His arms were tugged taut, his sleeves pushed up again, and he didn’t even have time to protest before it began.

It hurt, but barely.

What hurt most was that he knew what Felix was thinking. He understood why he was doing this, why he hadn’t hurt him — at least not in the way that he’d expected. Apart from the bruises forming on his back and the raw tenderness of his throat, Felix hadn’t left a mark on him. He’d been careful, and even now, every wound opened up on Simmons was still a product of meticulous thought and careful planning.

The predatory gaze that he’d been so terrified of earlier all of a sudden made sense. Felix had terrorised him, with barely any injury, had broken him down with so little effort it was a wound in and of itself, and the only physical evidence he left were the mirroring of marks that Simmons had left on himself.

Now it was a secret, a burden and a shame for Simmons to bear alone.

Before he realised it, they were done. Hot blood ran down his arms and dripped to the floor, and he realised he’d been right earlier — it had only been a matter of time before his blood had joined the stains on the floor below.

“Go get something to stop the bleeding,” Felix ordered, and it took several long moments for the words to register dully in Simmons’ ears.

He’d reverted into himself, withdrawn quickly, but this time Felix did nothing to draw him out. Instead, he seemed satisfied, and directed the boys around with words that Simmons didn’t hear.

After a moment, they were gone. He saw the door open and shut, and then he was alone with Felix.

“You repulse me,” Felix told him. “What you do — it’s a waste. There’s so many better ways to get what you want, if you need it so badly. Why do you think everyone comes _here?”_ He gestured around him, ignorant to the fact that Simmons wasn’t listening, and that his words were falling on deaf ears. “You know, I thought for certain that he _would_. He’s got something in him, don’t you think? That anger? That… _power_ that just needs to be let out. It’s in everything he does, but somehow, he hasn’t given into it yet.”

Felix clicked his tongue. “Maybe I’ll make him,” he wondered, and he said no more as the door opened and Ripley returned.

“It’s clear up until the shower block,” he informed Felix. He gave Simmons a lingering look, but said nothing, and Felix watched him sharply.

“Stay there. Keep an eye out. We’ll send him out shortly, and when he does, you’re free to go back to whatever it is that you waste your time doing. Tell Garren, however, to keep an eye on him.” His gaze shifted to Simmons. “A _very_ close eye on him. If he causes any more trouble for us, make a repeat of the situation. And next time, make him scream.”

Without hesitation, Ripley left, and they were alone once more.

This time, Felix didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at Simmons as they waited, and the silence wrapped itself around the bleeding boy like a warm blanket. He swayed on the spot, everything that had happened threatening to drag him into unconsciousness. He’d fainted several times in his life, but he’d never wanted to as badly as he did then.

The door opened, and the next thing Simmons knew was that toilet paper was being shoved at him. For a moment, his hands were unresponsive, before he reached up and took hold. In mechanical movements driven by practice, he began pressing down, stemming the blood flow and soaking up the blood.

Felix waited, impatient, and as soon as the bleeding has stopped he directed him towards the door.

“I hope you remember what we talked about,” he said lightly, but Simmons felt the undercurrent of threat as if it was tangible.

He nodded, dully, and focused on moving his feet forward. His brain wasn’t working, had simply shut down, unable to process the events. He was deaf to the world and blind to everything around him but his feet as they moved forward, step by step. The double doors to the outside loomed up in front of him, but before he could reach out to open them, Felix spoke up, his voice ringing out behind him.

“Oh, one last thing.”

Slowly, slowly, Simmons turned around, convinced Felix’s blade would be out and swinging towards him, flying towards his throat and he’d be helpless to lift a finger to defend himself—

“You forgot these,” Felix said, and slipped Simmons’ glasses on over his nose. Under his touch, Simmons trembled, but he wasn’t even aware of it. "Be good, now."

Dimly, his whole world rolling around him and barely able to keep his feet on the ground, Simmons clutched at his bleeding arms and stumbled from the gym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the support, it means the world. <3


	33. fading fast

As he headed away from the gym, oblivious to the macabre happenings behind him, Washington managed to get himself under control sooner than he’d expected. He managed to keep his whirling thoughts from manifesting into physical symptoms — his breathing, too fast and far too uneven, and the sweat beading on his forehead, were the only giveaways.

He held his hands together to stop them from trembling, and while he was still moving too fast to not draw some attention, he wasn’t breaking down in the middle of the block, so he counted his blessings and pushed forward.

His mind was focused solely on task of getting some distance down between him and the gym. A part of himself that he didn’t want to admit to thought that maybe he wanted to get further away from _Felix,_ because he seemed to bring more trouble everywhere that he went.

Wash didn’t let himself consider that. When _he_ was one who attracted trouble so constantly, he couldn’t put others to blame for finding themselves in the same situation. Felix needed his help, and that was what it came down to, despite how much Wash loathed how he’d dragged him into this, how he’d sealed his fate by creating a friendship between them that Wash’s loyalty insisted he couldn’t just abandon.

He’d known all along that everything about Felix, and everything about the connection they’d forged together, could lead to bad things. He just hadn’t expected the bad things to be so life threatening, so dangerous. So Locus.

If it was anything but Locus…

Would Wash be as reluctant to help him? He’d already risked his relationship with Tucker repeatedly, and he didn’t think his regret and sorrow towards that fact counted for as much as he wished it would, because his relationship with Tucker was singlehandedly the most important thing to him.

He paused, but when he ran that thought over in his mind again, he knew there was one vital thing that he would change about it.

Tucker was the most important thing to him. Everything else was secondary. Even Wash’s relationship to him, because he knew he’d risk that if it meant keeping Tucker safe. Yet here he was, arriving at a decision he was only just aware of and that he didn’t want to commit to, which could endanger Tucker.

And, with everything that Felix had told him, he had to wonder — hadn’t this meant that he’d been endangering Tucker the whole time, more than he’d already known?

He was too wrapped up in his whirling thoughts to put any mind to the fact that somebody could have been watching him. He knew already, had it confirmed as many times, and if what Felix had told him was true, then they weren’t doing anything more thanwatching. So he didn’t try and focus on something that he couldn’t do anything about, until he realised that somebody was following him after all.

The footsteps that broke out of the crowded hall heading towards the school eventually asserted themselves in his mind and he spun, his lips pulling back over his teeth.

He couldn’t do this. God, just give him a break—

Then he stopped, the reaction dying down as quickly as it had arrived, when he realised who it was.

“Jeez, finally!” Doc complained, and he huffed as he closed the distance behind Wash. “I called your name, but you didn’t hear me, I guess. I hope you weren’t just pretending not to, because that’s not very nice at all, and I’ll say, I am getting pretty tired of people doing that. Anyway, what’s up?”

Wash’s nostrils flared as he took a quick glance around him. “It’s not the time,” he said, shortly, Doc’s words going straight over his head.

“Time for what?” Doc frowned. “That’s not very nice of you. Typically, you’re meant to say, I don’t know, _hello_ or something. Even if you’re grumpy. Did you even _listen_  to my advice before?”

“I’m not—” Wash started, then broke off. “Never mind. I have to go.”

“Where?” Doc asked, and when Wash didn’t give him an answer, he gave him a look of displeasure. “Well, fine, be like that. Jeez. I just wanted to say that I ran into Tucker just before, and he was looking for you.”

That gave Wash pause, and he looked at Doc appraisingly. “When?”

“I dunno, not long,” he shrugged. “Three, four minutes ago?”

_Too close._

“Where did he go?”

Doc shrugged again. “I’m not sure. Somewhere,” he said, unhelpfully. “He said Grif cancelled on him. So, do I tell him I ran into you if I see him?”

Wash stopped for a moment and thought it through, taking the opportunity to look around him as he did. Doc had surprised him, enough to give him a chance to regain himself even more, and he felt more human than he had only minutes ago. Stable enough to see Tucker, he supposed.

 _Wanting_ to see Tucker. A brief reprieve from his ceaseless mind, a cool touch against his flushed skin, safety. Tucker’s safety. He had to keep a closer eye out. If Tucker had followed him—

“Yes,” he decided, unwilling to listen to where his mind wanted to take that.

“And do I tell him where you were coming from?”

This time, when Wash paused, it was to give Doc a suspicious once-over, his narrowed eyes running over Doc’s features and peering behind his glasses to read into his eyes.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Doc mumbled, and Wash second guessed himself.

He didn’t have time for this. He glanced backwards, to the hallway leading to the gym block, then back to Doc and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter to me,” he bluffed, and Doc frowned at him.

“Okay,” he said, uncertainly. “You just looked stressed, that’s all. Have you been trying out any yoga poses?”

“No,” he said, simply, and tried to figure out a way to end the conversation. “I’m going to find Tucker.”

“You weren’t doing that a minute ago,” Doc pointed out, frown vanishing.

Impatience flowed through Wash. “So what?”

“So I’ll take a _thank you_ for my troubles! Man, someone really needs to teach you manners. Your hellos are awful, your conversation is half-hearted at best… I bet you don’t even say proper goodbyes!”

“I don’t,” Wash told him, and left.

He got as far as the rec hall before someone called his name. This time, he heard it — Doc’s surprise had drawn him somewhat out of himself, acted as a stabiliser that kept him from thinking too far into the conversation he’d had with Felix.

Not only that, he knew, but the voice was familiar, and the second he heard it he immediately drew himself to a halt.

“Wash!” Tucker called, and Wash spun to meet him. “Where’d you go? Hey, where’s Simmons? I told him to go find you.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” Wash said, frowning, but his tension was rapidly lessening — everything seemed to recede in severity with Tucker in front of him again. “And I haven’t seen him. I did run into Doc, though.”

“Oh, yeah. He’s usually around the halls so I figured I’d ask. I guess Simmons didn’t catch up to you.”

“I guess not,” Wash said, and his heart thumped at the idea of what could have happened if he had.

“Yeah, Grif got caught up with Bitters and some dudes in some big thing, so I decided to stay the fuck away from _that._ Figured you’d appreciate it a little.”

Wash blinked. “I do,” he said, because he had an idea what Tucker was saying, what that _big thing_ was, and it meant that Tucker had walked away from it. That he was sober now, for a little while longer at the least, and it meant a little more time together.

Wash fell in at his side, relishing the relief he felt to have Tucker near him again, the familiarity, the comfort. When he wasn’t burning, he was drowning, and Tucker was his anchor in a stormy, restless sea.

* * *

 

 _“I’ve got you, Wash _,”__ Tucker had said, one arm wrapped around his torso, his hand above Wash’s protruding hip bones, the other tucked carefully away around Wash’s neck, fingers caressing and kneading the skin there.

Wash couldn’t help it. He let his head fall forward, let the gentle sensations roll through him where Tucker’s warm fingers massaged his stress away bit by bit; exposed himself, the nape of his neck vulnerable and open, but it didn’t matter because Tucker was at his back, legs spread so Wash could be situated neatly between them, tucked away as if he was delicate.

He supposed he was.

He’d kept himself together through the day, but his nightmares had come out in the night, roaring and screaming their way through him until he shouted himself awake to Tucker’s hands on him — desperate, _searching,_ making sure Wash was okay even as he promised him repeatedly that he was.

_“You’re okay, you’re okay, Wash. I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re okay.”_

He hadn’t been, but he was then, with Tucker pressed against him like a secret in the pitch dark. Tucker hadn’t let him go, had tried hopelessly to stop the shivers wracking through Wash and when he couldn’t, he’d sat down with him and pulled him, slowly, bit by bit down until he was leaning against his chest. Then he’d moved back, and pulled Wash flush against him, because at some point he’d decided it was something important to be doing: to show Wash that someone could be at his back without trying to hurt him. That someone could have it.

Tucker did. Tucker had it.

Tucker had his back, had for a long time now, and the soothing motions he kept up were rolling out soft, happy sensations down his spine. They seemed to ebb and flow with his guilt because Tucker was with him, Tucker was keeping him safe, but in his dreams he’d let Tucker get hurt. In his dreams, Tucker had suffered, and Wash had been helpless to keep him out of reach of long, clawed hands, had been unable to press down hard enough to hold Tucker’s blood inside, and there’d been so much of it, _so much_ —

 _“I’ll protect you,”_ he whispered, drowsy, on the threshold of consciousness, only partially aware of what he was saying.

There was no still in Tucker’s movements.

_“I know you will.”_

And that was it. An unconditional, unquestioned trust placed within him, and Wash could tell exactly where it was placed. It was the warm, softly glowing feeling inside him, tucked somewhere between his ribcage, somewhere strangely near his heart.

Tucker’s whisper was husky, and his breath blew over his ear so warmly that Wash shuddered.

 _“I’ll protect you too, you know,”_ he said, and Wash hadn’t expected it, but he knew after a moment that he long, languid sensations of comfort easing through him told him everything that he needed to know.

It was true, after all. Tucker would protect him, because he was _now. _F__ ierce and loyal, defending Wash from the confines of his mind, warding off the shadows that plagued him and fighting away the darkness with his own soft touches of light.

An unwavering protector against everything Wash couldn’t fight off himself.

They caught up, they were taken back in with open arms, and that was that. They fell into a routine that Wash welcomed, partly because he wanted it but mostly because he needed it. The stability and comfort that Tucker offered, the safety in numbers given by the group, it was all drawn in and held closely to him.

He’d ached without it, suffered miserably and wished desperately for the times he’d somehow taken for granted without even realising it.

Now, he cherished every small moment, painstakingly aware of how easily it could be torn away from him. He’d taken to training with Tucker with renewed motivation, looking forward to the continued development and progression as Tucker improved with leaps and bounds. It meant that he could lean away from the fear that had overtaken him the first time, and restricted him still every time after, and left them with the opportunity to grow.

To get better, and safer, to work towards the day where Tucker could protect himself.

* * *

 

“What’s wrong with Simmons?”

That became the mantra for the next few days. One by one, as if they took turns, each of them would inevitably end up asking the question, and it was Grif who fielded them most, with no small degree of annoyance and frustration.

“I don’t _know._ I already told you that.”

“But—”

 _“But,_ no. I don’t know what the fuck you want from me. He won’t tell me what’s wrong, and I can’t figure it out. So quit asking.”

“There _is_ something wrong, though.”

Wash’s question, buried in uncertainty and the unerring desire to figure out exactly what was wrong.

“No shit. You’re a fucking genius. Why don’t you use those skills to find out what the fuck is wrong, and quit pestering me about it?”

A mask, to cover the worry that wasn’t hidden in the depths of his darker eyes. He was concerned, and was absent from the group more frequently, determined to be there when Simmons was, to be a rock that he could lean on.

“Why don’t you just _ask_  him?” Tucker pushed.

“Why don’t I just kick him while I’m at it? The good thing about me and Simmons is that when something’s up, we don’t __have__ to immediately find out and make it our problem. Sometimes shit is just wrong, and there’s not all that much you can do, and it’s better _and_ easier not to have to talk about it. That’s how we are, and that’s how we like it. I’ve already asked a dozen times, and he’s already not told me a dozen times, so I’d rather not ruin it any further, thanks for the advice.”

It made sense, but it didn’t. While it went against a lot of Wash’s instincts, it also rang true, and more than that, it seemed so fitting, so __them__ that he supposed he couldn’t really question it. He could see it, too, even if he didn’t understand it — Simmons’ quiet exhaustion seemed to only lessen when he had Grif to revolve around, to lean on silently when they were away from prying eyes, to give answers for when Simmons wasn’t in the mood to offer them.

He needed him, and Wash could understand why he’d be so reluctant to push him when he seemed so… _vulnerable._ Like Wash had been, like he still was, but in different ways. It was something that Wash didn’t understand, but he vowed he would try to, to be there for Simmons if he needed it.

So he tried. He pushed to an extent, tried to get him to open up and spend time together, and didn’t realise the entire time that he was making things worse. Then it was too late, and he’d unwittingly forged Simmons’ death warrant with his own bare hands.

* * *

 

 _“What_  did you do?”

“I— I didn’t do anything, I _swear—”_

Fists, slamming down on the wall on either side of Simmons’ head, and a snarl that pulled back lips over teeth to reveal pointed canines.

Simmons was quickly becoming very familiar with that snarl. “I __didn’t__ ,” he wheezed again, but he was already finding it hard to breathe.

Panic had set in the second unfamiliar arms had clamped around him and dragged him back into the bathroom block, and the dirty, disgusting hand that had covered his mouth had only served to make him retch repeatedly. When he’d swallowed down his bile and almost regained some sense of rational thought, Felix had shown up, obviously informed by the boy who’d pulled him in here, and Simmons had been choking on his air ever since.

Felix’s quiet, purposeful hum seemed to echo in his head and in his empty lungs, where he couldn’t quite seem to draw air all the way down even though he _knew_ how stupid that was, _knew_ how important it was to get all the oxygen he could in case _it_ happened again—

Felix grabbed him, but not where he expected. Instead of hands curling around his throat, Felix took his jaw in his hand and forced Simmons to look at him.

“Normally,” he began through his teeth, “I _love_ games. I just _love_ drawing this out and making it all lots of fun, making sure we all have a _great_ time, but unfortunately I just don’t have time for that today. You’ve quickly reached the end of my rope —or should I say _your_ rope? Because if you don’t tell me _exactly_ what you did, I’m going to string you up from the fucking rafters and tell everyone you killed yourself.”

He reached down and dug his nails into Simmons’ still healing arm.  _“Not_ exactly a difficult thing to do,” he reminded, over the sound of Simmons’ muffled cry.

“I didn’t do anything,” Simmons repeated, tears filling and overflowing in his eyes. “Please — I didn’t!”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Felix took a step back and gestured to the boy who he’d directed to bring Simmons to him. The boy stood to attention, but rather than pointing him towards Simmons, Felix flicked a hand to the door.

“Get out. Watch the corridor. Nobody comes down here.”

Without a second of hesitation, the boy did so. The moment that Felix ordered him away, Simmons snapped his eyes up, a cold feeling of fear destroying any relief that he might have had a chance to feel. He knew, just looking at Felix, that something bad was still going to happen — it just meant that now, he had no idea what to expect.

As he watched, Felix drew his switchblade out, but he wasted no time in showing off as he flicked it open and pointed it at Simmons.

“You used all my patience last time,” he warned. “And I told you, didn’t I? Did our little conversation not go through your head? Is your brain too _damaged_  to understand exactly what I can do to you if you cause me problems?”

“But… I—I haven’t said a word, not a _thing!”_

Felix narrowed his eyes at him, before a false smile spread brightly across his cheeks. “For someone who says they haven’t said a thing, you’re awfully talkative _now._ Makes a guy wonder… did you really say nothing?”

“I haven’t even spoken to him,” Simmons whispered hoarsely, when the switchblade was tapped thoughtfully against his jaw. “I’ve been… just with Grif…”

“Really? And you don’t think _that_ is a bit of a problem? Didn’t I— didn’t I help you with this? Didn’t I give you a _perfectly_ good cover story, believable and all, for your beyond pathetic acting skills? _Solely_  because I knew you might be a problem?”

Simmons was quiet.

Felix tapped the blade once more. “You know,” he said, suddenly very quiet, “I think I did.”

Simmons closed his eyes and tried to press himself into the wall. The blade traced around his jaw to his neck and pressed down enough to make him inhale sharply, but no blood was drawn. The threat, however, was still painfully clear.

“So didn’t it work?” Felix asked, his voice back to its previous volume, the terrifying, _thoughtful_  tone now gone. “I mean, what happened? It didn’t remind you to keep your mouth shut? Or did it remind you __too__ much, and now you’ve gone and tipped him off that something’s wrong — because really, that’s the only thing I can think of.”

“No — _no,_ I haven’t—”

“I mean, it is awfully suspicious,” Felix cut in, frowning as if he couldn’t quite figure out a difficult problem. “You see some things you’re not meant to, you promise you’ll keep quiet about it, and all of a sudden Wash doesn’t want to come see me again?”

“I— He…”

Felix leaned in close. “He was _going_ to come see me again,” he whispered, and anger simmered quietly beneath his words, filling them with a dark edge and loading them with terrifying certainty.

Simmons didn’t know what to say.

“He was going to come see me again,” Felix repeated, “but he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t say a word — and maybe it was the fact that you didn’t say a word that’s the cause of all this. So what do you say? How about I just cut out your tongue? That way we won’t have to worry about this problem again.”

“No, no, no, please—”

“Or I cut your throat, and never have to worry about _you_ again, because I _thought_  you said you wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I’m _not!”_

“Yet here we are.”

Simmons was shaking. His mind was spinning in circles, terror rendering him dumb and incoherent, icy fingers gripping him tight and squeezing the air out of him. He didn’t know what to do or to say, his mind stopping and starting and catching every time his eyes flicked to the switchblade and back.

He had no _choices,_ because last time he’d tried not to speak and he’d had nightmares ever since about what that had meant for him. But this time, he was __trying__ , desperately searching through his panic stricken mind for the words that would explain that he really _hadn’t_ done anything, he’d barely even seen Wash, hadn’t said a word to him—

And maybe that was his fault, maybe Felix was right, maybe he unintentionally caused some important change that would mean trouble for him, maybe maybe _maybe—_

“Simmons.”

His name was spoken softly, a hint of sadness, a false regret that Simmons registered was for what was about to come.

“Please,” he tried desperately. “I’m _trying._  I don’t know—”

Felix shook his head, but there was a flash of impatience behind his eyes.

“Don’t know what? You don’t know _why_  Wash suddenly decided against meeting me, when I knew that he would?  _That’s_  funny.”

What did that impatience mean for him? What did any of this mean for him? Would he ever escape from this, free himself from the snake that had reared its head and wrapped itself around him before it squeezed the life out of him?

“Better put that tongue to good use before I cut it out,” Felix murmured, but Simmons could tell that he’d reached the end of toying with him, and he was making it very clear.

It worked. The paralysis released him for a second, and he gasped.

“I really don’t _know_ — he’s been— busy, lately, and I haven’t seen very much of him—”

“Busy with what?” Felix snapped.

Simmons hesitated, but before he could give an answer they were interrupted.

“Felix,” a voice called, haltingly and Felix turned to see the boy from before hurrying towards them.

_“What?”_

A split second hesitation. “Someone’s coming. _He’s_ coming,” he said, before Felix could demand who, and Felix’s entire demeanour changed.

“Stall him,” he hissed, before he abruptly released Simmons and darted backwards, to the row of stalls.

There, he gave one meaningful look to Simmons and drew his switchblade over the air an inch from his throat, before he ducked into a stall and silently locked the door behind him. Simmons barely had time to drag his eyes back to the long tiled corridor leading into the bathroom block before a familiar voice echoed down it.

“What the fuck, dude? Ripley, _move._ I’m seriously busting for a piss. I don’t _care_ if you’re shooting up in here, what I do care about is if I piss myself because you’re in the fucking way.”

His eyes bulged. That was _Tucker_  — he’d been sure that the boy had been talking about Wash, because what interest would Felix have in Tucker? His stomach dropped through his feet, but he didn’t have a chance to dwell on it before Ripley moved back, and allowed Tucker to step through.

A moment later, he realised why. Wash was with him, shadowing Tucker carefully. His narrowed eyes and tense demeanour gave away that he’d realised something was off, but from the way his eyes abruptly widened at the sight of Simmons in the middle of the room, he clearly hadn’t been expecting what he found.

Simmons expected him to say something, but instead he carefully nudged Tucker to the side and ran his eyes over the room once, twice. Assessing. He stepped forward again, but this time more carefully, and it was clear that he’d positioned himself perfectly between Tucker and the rest of the room — including the boy who’d stood guard, but also including Simmons.

“What’s going on here?” he finally asked, and Simmons wanted to collapse in relief.

Wash was here. Possibly the only person that could help him now, the only one who Ripley would let through—

His relief faded as instantly as it had come. Of course he had let him through. Whatever was going on here, Washington was somehow involved, and he wanted to crumble to the ground again, but this time in despair. Felix had hidden himself for a reason. Instead of using his charm and charisma to talk himself out of it, he’d hidden himself, and Simmons could only guess why — to watch, to judge, to keep this a secret and to give himself an advantage.

His attention was pulled back into the present, where Washington was watching him very carefully, when Tucker tried to step out around Wash.

“Dude, what the fuck? Simmons, are you okay?”

Before he could help it, Simmons glanced at the boy standing near the door, and immediately all attention was shifted towards him. Tucker’s voice rose in pitch, demanding.

“Ripley? What the fuck? What’s going on here?”

“Nothing.”

Ripley’s response was clipped and uninterested. Wash’s eyes sought him out, but his next question directed itself towards Simmons.

“Is anything the matter?”

Simmons knew he was talking to him, but it still took him several seconds to respond — his throat had tightened so much it was painful, and he was terrified of giving anything away. He could almost see Felix’s eyes on him through row of stalls, could almost _feel_ the tap of the blade on his skin, and it did nothing to calm his nerves.

_“Simmons?”_

“No— it’s fine.”

“Dude.” Tucker properly stepped out from behind Wash to look between him and Ripley, despite Wash’s protests. “Seriously, what the fuck’s going on? Is this guy _bothering_ you?”

Simmons hesitated. His first instinct was to lie, to deny it and try and act like everything was normal, but he didn’t need to think twice to know that it would be a mistake. He wasn’t _believable,_ with his wide eyes and his nervous stutter and the fearful high pitch to his voice, and he couldn’t make himself be.

He wasn’t Wash, or even Felix. He couldn’t force himself to look like something he wasn’t, so he told the truth.

“I… yes. But it’s my fault.”

Immediately the whole atmosphere of the room changed. Wash closed the distance between them, Tucker in tow, and this time he placed himself between Simmons and Ripley. Simmons heard Tucker distantly ask him if he was okay, but his eyes were on the other boy, desperate to determine if he’d made a mistake or not.

“What’s the problem here?”

Wash’s voice hadn’t shifted from that cold, flat tone. It was beginning to unnerve Simmons, and he didn’t think he could handle any more unnerving. He was already fighting back trembles, the feeling of Felix’s switchblade still a phantom weight on the skin of his neck, and now he couldn’t shake the heavy certainty that Wash’s appearance here was very bad news for him.

His eyes darted to Ripley nervously when the boy put his hands up and took a step back.

“He got in my way, that’s all,” he said, easily, sounding like for all the world that he didn’t care about what was going on.

Which, Simmons realised, he probably didn’t. He wouldn’t have any issues here.

As if Washington could sense something was still off, he went over the room again, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. His gaze lingered on the row of toilet stalls, only for a few seconds, but it was enough for Simmons’ heart to jump into his throat.

“It was my fault,” he squeaked, desperate to distract him, and it worked. Wash’s attention returned to him. “I got in his way.”

“Bullshit,” Tucker cut in, and he moved out from where Wash had placed him behind once more to join him standing in front of Simmons. “ _ _How__? What, you accidently bumped into him or something? You don’t exactly go around picking fights. What the fuck are you even _doing_ here, Ripley? Don’t you belong up at Felix’s?”

“Until recently, I was under the impression you belonged there too.”

Ripley’s voice was relatively even, but the taunting edge that underlay it was blatantly clear.

Tucker eyes narrowed. “Oh, you fucker—”

“Enough.” Wash cut in. “We’re leaving. Simmons, come with us.”

And that was it, Simmons marvelled. Wash had the power to end this scenario with only a few words and a tone of finality, whereas Simmons was helpless. All it took was him, to come in and figure out something was more wrong than it looked, and it was all over.

For a split, split second, he was _envious_ — Washington carried with him a power, a sense of authority that Simmons wasn’t even sure he knew about, the ability to make decisions and follow through with them — and, more importantly, make everybody else follow through with them, too.

Even now, Ripley was acquiescing, preparing to leave while Simmons could barely find it in himself to unroot himself from the spot. He managed, on trembling legs, and made his way closer to Wash and Tucker, who frowned at him.

“You shouldn’t have been out by yourself, dude.”

That was true, and Simmons knew it. He’d known that he shouldn’t have been by himself, but he’d had no idea of the danger that he was in, and he’d thought that it was too draining being around everyone and trying to maintain a façade that he _wasn’t_ falling apart on the inside.

The cuts, the constant thoughts, the nightmares — it was all too much, and he’d been a wreck over the past days. He’d just needed a break, even from Grif, only a quick one — but it had been a mistake.

“I know,” he whispered quietly, and Wash’s gaze was steady and unrelenting for several long seconds.

Eventually, he shifted his gaze to Ripley, and Simmons couldn’t help the tiny feeling of gratefulness that grew within him at the way that Ripley faltered under Wash’s stare.

“Get out. I don’t want to see you again.”

His words were stilted and stiff, but the command in them was irrefutable. Ripley didn’t hesitate before he nodded and backed down the hallway.

It left only the three of them, and _Felix._

Simmons swallowed and started towards the door. “We should go,” he began, his voice high and panicky, but Washington was quick to manoeuvre around and stand himself in front of him.

“Now hold on,” he began, his frown pulling his eyebrows together. Next to him, Tucker was giving him a nearly identical expression, but he had more concern and worry evident in the lines of his face.

“What _happened?”_ he asked, when Simmons looked at him.

He reached out an arm but Simmons flinched away, and he tried to ignore the look they shared in front of him.

“Did he hurt you?” Wash asked, ever the practical one, and Simmons shook his head.

“Are you okay?” Tucker bounced up and down impatiently, and Wash reached out an absentminded hand to still him — it worked. Under his touch, Tucker quieted.

Simmons didn’t know why, but he was suddenly very sure that Felix wasn’t watching him anymore. He couldn’t help but feel like Felix was watching _them_ — not just Wash, and not just Tucker, but both of them, together.

That, he knew, if he knew nothing else, was _bad._

He blinked when he realised Wash had asked him something.

“What did he want with you?”

Another practical question, but one that Simmons couldn’t answer. He looked at Tucker instead, but he received no support. Tucker just watched him, waiting.

“I’m fine,” he eventually mumbled. “I don’t know. I’m just…”

He tried to think of an excuse for it, a reason that would explain this away without drawing any suspicion or connections to his unusual behaviour over the past few days, but Wash was too quick for him.

“Is this what’s been going on?”

He gestured around, then down to where Ripley had disappeared down the long tiled corridor, before his gaze settled on Simmons. Simmons froze, aware that if Wash kept talking, kept going down the path that he was threatening to go down, any wrong word could mean trouble for him. It could mean his tongue on the floor, his neck being slit, his life force draining out of him with a gurgle — and Wash didn’t even know it.

“ _ _No__  — I’m fine,” he said again, and was painfully aware of Felix listening intently. “This was just an accident. I got in his way, when— when he was trying to leave. Like he said. I knocked into him.”

Wash’s eyes tightened, and Simmons knew he didn’t believe it. He gave him one final cursory glance, then slowly looked around the room again, searching, searching for something that if he looked hard enough he would find.

Simmons was still frozen, his pounding heart the only giveaway that he hadn’t just suddenly become a statue.

“I need to go,” he managed, abruptly, the words bursting from him so suddenly that every pair of eyes in the room immediately turned to him.

“Why?” Wash asked.

Tucker had fallen silent. He’d evidently clocked on to the fact that Wash had found something very wrong with the situation, even more than met the eye, so he seemed content to stay back and let him figure it out.

The trust he had in him was extraordinary, and it made Simmons long for Grif. He could just fall into Grif, and forget all this, act like Washington wasn’t watching him with the eyes of a hawk, waiting for an answer that Simmons couldn’t give. Like Felix wasn’t hidden away so close to him, fingers ready on his switchblade, waitingfor a mistake.

After a moment of consideration, Wash stepped a little closer. As if he was tied to him, Tucker matched his step.

“It looked to me like he was watching for something,” Wash told him, carefully, observing his reaction. “Or someone.”

Simmons counted to three, tried his best to ensure that his voice would work when he went to use it. “I think he was just scared of being caught,” he tried, and resisted the urge to collapse with relief at the fact that his voice didn’t give him away.

But Tucker frowned. “Who, Ripley? That dude doesn’t give a shit about anything. He’s been in solitary more times than I can count.”

Wash hummed thoughtfully, quietly, his eyes never leaving him.

Probably why Felix trusted him to do his dirty work, Simmons thought, before the reminder forced him to focus once more. Felix was there, listening to Simmons being cornered, watching concrete evidence unfold in front of him that Wash had caught on that something was wrong.

Judging. Evaluating. Deciding which wrong word would bring down his wrath.

Simmons was reminded just how dire the situation was for him, and he nearly burst into tears. “It was just him,” he repeated, his voice rising in desperation and panic. “It was nothing, just — please, Wash, can I just go?”

Abruptly, Wash stepped back, and looked around and down at himself. “Of course,” he said, surprised, before he shared a glance with Tucker. “I wasn’t— I didn’t— I wouldn’t _stop_ you—”

“Maybe we should come with you,” Tucker interrupted, and Wash shot him a thankful look before he nodded.

“You’re obviously shaken. We can take you back to Grif, if you want—”

“No!” Simmons interrupted, shaking his head at the thought. “Grif is at Felix’s,” he said, in explanation, and shook with relief that he hadn’t faltered over the name.

Tucker’s confused expression cleared, and after glancing at him for assurance, Wash’s did too.

“What about Donut?” Tucker offered. “Or Sarge?”

Suddenly, all Simmons wanted to do was push them away. _“I don’t need your help,”_ he wanted to shout.  _“You don’t understand, you’re only making everything worse!”_

“Okay,” he said quietly instead, because he swore he’d heard a faint _click_  of a switchblade. “Donut.”

Although he didn’t even remotely want to deal with Donut’s incessant ramblings and the extensive concern and worry that he’d want to shower Simmons with, he had no choice but to agree. Donut was the best choice, because Sarge’s eyes were far too sharp and observant for him to be around right now.

Unfortunately, Wash’s were sharper, and he hadn’t lifted his gaze off of Simmons for more than a few seconds.

“Cool,” Tucker nodded, sharing another glance with him. “Okay then.”

Finally, they began moving towards the exit — a wordless mutual agreement that left them stepping away in tandem, and then looking back to Simmons expectantly until he realised that they’d come to an unspoken decision that he hadn’t been a part of.

“You coming?” Tucker prompted, when the realisation rendered him still for several seconds longer.

“Do you need anything?” Wash asked, and Simmons shook his head.

“I need to sleep,” he said, and he couldn’t help the faint reminder as to why he’d liked Wash when there was a glint of quiet understanding in his grey eyes.

“Then let’s get you to your room,” he decided, and Simmons tried not to look too desperate when he nodded in agreement.

They’d reached the entryway to the tiled corridor leading into the waiting room for the bathroom block, and Simmons was beginning to breathe again. All he had to do was get out of here, excuse himself, throw up a bit, and try to wrap his head around things in privacy.

Hope was beginning to creep up on him, because he’d escaped unscathed and maybe, just __maybe__ he’d been convincing enough that Felix would accept it, and he wouldn’t come back for him—

“How about I go get Grif, Wash, and you walk back with Simmons?”

It all came crashing down around at Tucker’s words, and again when Wash nodded in agreement.

“Alright. But hurry back.”

 _“No,”_ Simmons wanted to say. _“Don’t go, don’t get Grif, don’t leave me with Wash. Don’t let him know that I’ll be alone with Wash.”_

He couldn’t speak.

“I will, baby. You figure out what the fuck’s going on.” Tucker shot Wash a wink and he was off, leaving Simmons and Wash by themselves in the corridor, his words echoing around them.

Echoing back to Felix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your kind words <3


	34. dark storms rolling in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW at the end of this chapter!! Skip through to the End Notes if you have any concerns, and be aware of spoilers. 
> 
> Thank you all one thousand times over for all the support - for every comment, every kudos, everything and anything.

As soon as they were out of the bathroom and starting down the familiar trek back to Simmons’ room, Washington started on him.

“So,” he began, and it was immediately clear that he was choosing his words very carefully. “First things first, I suppose — are you alright?”

He didn’t ask if he was _sure_ he was alright, or if he was certain, or anything to imply that he was checking again — that he’d accepted Simmons’ answer at all in the first place. He clearly hadn’t, and he didn’t look like he would believe anything Simmons told him.

His sharp grey eyes were watchful, and Simmons couldn’t help but feel like he was being picked apart, piece by piece. Eventually, Wash would dismantle him completely, and all that would be left would be a bleeding truth and a hurting soul, scattered amongst all his broken pieces on the ground.

“Simmons?”

Reality; he had to try. Even if Felix couldn’t hear this, he had to try and be convincing, so that Wash could let it go. So that after this, when Felix came back to see what damage had been done, he’d find nothing to cause suspicion and he’d just _leave Simmons alone—_

He didn’t let himself think about the fact that he knew that wouldn’t happen. That if Felix was after him before it would be worse now, with the living, _breathing_  proof in front of him that he wasn’t doing a well enough job of keeping himself together. A few more days, another visit, the possibility looming up over him and tightening his chest.

That was a thought he couldn’t bear to think, a truth he couldn’t face —

So he pushed it down and tried to ignore the panic bursting in his chest.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, his voice high in pitch, when Wash repeated his name. “That’s what I told you the first time. Can I just walk back by myself? I don’t feel like company.”

Wash blinked, for a second looking taken aback, before it fell from his face and was replaced with more concern, more worry. More of everything Simmons couldn’t handle and didn’t need, because he didn’t _need_ Wash, Wash was dangerous, a threat, and he was looking at him like Simmons was the one who was about to lose it.

Maybe he was. He felt like he was going to lose everything.

“Right,” Wash said, carefully. “Well, no, I’m not going to let you walk back by yourself, that doesn’t seem… and I know you told me that, I just wasn’t sure that it was a truthful answer. We were, after all, in front of someone who’d clearly been harassing you.”

“Yeah, well, I meant it. I’m fine. Can you speed up?”

Wash slowed down.  “Just hold on a second.”

Simmons would have loved to have picked up his pace and left him behind, but he knew it wouldn’t work like that. He slowed to meet Wash’s pace but still refused to look at him.

“I just want to make sure that whatever happened back there won’t be happening again,” Wash told him, his voice soft and quiet. He stepped past someone, always staying close to Simmons, never allowing anyone to walk between them or drive them apart.

Simmons felt some of his anger melt away at that, but it returned again a moment later, even more forceful. Wash wasn’t _safe_ — and wasn’t that something he’d never expected to find himself thinking since the earliest days? Since Wash had come so very close to hitting him in the bathroom? They’d never talked about that, but Simmons had seen it.

The look had been there. The _want,_ to lash out and strike him down.

Simmons recognised it. He knew that look; had grown so familiar seeing in his own father’s eye, the promise of pain and blossoming bruises. He’d faced it down enough times, and it had been there, clear as day, when Wash had stared him down with clenched fists. Simmons had prepared himself, for the violence, for the pain, but Wash hadn’t hit him.

He’d turned and left, even then, even with nothing stopping him from doing the opposite except himself — he’d stared Simmons down with the _want_ look and still walked away.

He’d never hit any of them except for Donut, not even Grif when he’d had him cornered alone, when Grif had invited as much and given him every opportunity. He’d told Simmons himself —  _“thought he was gunna fucking kill me”_ — but Wash hadn’t even touched him.

He’d only looked out for them, even then had only been looking out for Tucker. He warded off any potential threats and helped pull their circle in tighter. He was __one__ of them, even though he had it, that burning response and first-thought inside him that showed in his eye. The _want._

He’d always had it, and Simmons knew he always would.

He just never acted on it. And so why was it that he was walking by Simmons’ side, watchful and concerned and everything Simmons needed, but he still didn’t feel safe? After a moment, he supposed he already knew.

It wasn’t Wash that wasn’t safe, but whatever was going on with Felix was very bad news, and it was obvious that Wash was involved to  _some_ extent in it. Why else would he have agreed to see Felix? Why had he been at the gym in the first place?

Whatever it was, it didn’t mean that he was any safer. It meant that he was still tied up in Felix, he was still bad news for Simmons — even worse now, because he wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone but Simmons would be the one to be blamed for it. He was already being punished, for something he didn’t understand and wanted nothing to do with, all because he’d worried about Wash and tried to follow him.

Because he’d cared. Because he’d thought even with that _want_ look Wash was still safe.

Resentment flared up in him, but it was hard to maintain it when he could see nothing but a soft concern in Wash’s eyes.

“Simmons,” Wash said, and Simmons wondered how long he’d been repeating his name. “Would you like to tell me what was going on back there?”

“I _told_ you.” It was all he managed, because he didn’t have any energy for this.

He needed to be alone, somewhere safe, needed a book to take his mind away or to sleep but most of all he just needed _Grif,_ because Grif wouldn’t ask him all these questions. He’d just let Simmons cry it out, build him a nest of dirty blankets and stained sheets, and stay with him as long as Simmons needed.

“Are you okay?” Wash asked again, and Simmons realised that his eyes were brimming.

“I’m fine,” he said, for the millionth time, but this time there was no force behind it. It was flat and dull and lifeless, and Wash seemed to draw himself up at it, his face pinching together as it could only register as __wrong__.

“If you just—”

“It’s _done.”_

It was true, although Wash wouldn’t understand what he was really saying. It really _was_ done, Washington had done his damage and Simmons would be the one to pay for it later.

Wash finally faltered, and after a moment seemed to change tactics. “Look, I — I just wanted a chance to talk to you. I wanted to apologise properly, for everything. For disappearing without any explanation, and for not making it up to you sooner. I actually bought you a book, too — I’m not sure if you’ll like it, but it’s an old one. I didn’t have any money, and I used my first time free coupon on Sarge, so I had to give Donut a kiss on the cheek for it.”

Immediately, Simmons picked up on what Wash was doing. He was surprised that he had enough tact to even do it, wondered when Tucker had rubbed off on him this much, because although tact certainly wasn’t Tucker’s strong point, this was definitely _his_ way of going about things, not Wash’s. And it would have worked — any other time.

Simmons would have jumped into the conversation, would have broken in with a _“What? Really? Oh, well, you didn’t have to— did you_ really _kiss Donut on the cheek for it?”_ — but he was hurting, too full of fear and suspicion to bring himself to do it.

He just wanted Wash to go. He knew it wasn’t entirely his fault, knew that he was in trouble too, but he wouldn’t leave Simmons alone when he so clearly wanted him to and he thought he was being a good friend for it.

_Good friends wouldn’t have secrets with Felix._

“Tucker bought it for me and traded the payment,” Wash finally said anyway, and his disappointment was quiet but notably there nonetheless. “I… I _am_ sorry, Simmons. And I hope that you’ll talk to me about whatever’s going on. I might not be able to relate, but I can listen. Sometimes… sometimes that’s all you need.”

He fell quiet, and Simmons knewhe was thinking about Tucker. They walked, and by the time they had arrived at Simmons’ cell, the quiet had descended through awkward into painfully uncomfortable.

“I suppose I just wanted to say sorry,” Wash finally said, when he stood at the door. “For it all. I know it doesn’t count for anything, but I’ll grab that book and get it to you next time I see you.”

_“I don’t care,”_ Simmons wanted to say to him, but it wasn’t true. He did care, but he wanted to wish he never had at all because he was scared and uncertain and hurting and _alone,_ and it was all because he’d cared about Wash. Now, he was caught up in something he didn’t understand with no foreseeable way out.

Wash’s next words seemed to reflect that, but they were laughable.

“And Simmons… if you’re in trouble, I hope whatever’s going on won’t stop you from coming to me for help. From coming to— to any of us.”

Simmons was sure that there was something else there, a quiet realisation and no doubt something to do with Tucker, but he didn’t care. All he could think about was _how_ could he go to Wash, if going to Wash would only make things worse? He was under threat for even talking to him. Talking to _any_ of them seemed impossibly difficult now.

He didn’t realise he hadn’t responded until Wash shifted uncomfortably in the doorway.

“Well, alright then. I’ll go see if Tucker’s had any luck finding Grif.”

Before he could stop himself, before he could think it through, Simmons stopped him.

“Wait,” he said, and said nothing else, because there was nothing else he  _could_ say.

He couldn’t explain to him that going to Felix’s by himself could be a big mistake. Even if he was hurting, mad and suspicious, he knew that Wash was in danger too, and all he wanted to do was say _“Don’t go up there alone.”_

Because even though he was hurting, even though he blamed Wash for the trouble he was in, for the fear and uncertainty that had saturated his every thought since Felix had dragged him into the gym, he couldn’t help the knowledge that had settled over him that there was a very, very good chance that Wash was in trouble too.

If Felix was involved, and if he would go to the lengths he was going to just to make sure Simmons kept his mouth shut about just _seeing_ him with Wash, it was very bad news.

He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to swallow down the anger and wariness that was easier to hold close to him than worry and concern, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t _forgive_ him, couldn’t let himself talk to him, because he was filled with a heavy conviction that somehow, Felix would know — but until he got himself together and could think straight again, he could do this.

He could stop Wash from being closer to Felix for just a little longer.

He wanted to laugh when he realised that this was exactly what had gotten him in trouble earlier; Felix had been right, he’d just acted too soon.

He realised Wash was still waiting for him to speak.

“Just stay for a bit,” he said, and he sounded so much unlike himself that he was unnerved. “Until Grif gets here.”

Wash nodded, slowly, and sat down on Simmons’ desk without another word.

Safe, for now.

* * *

 

When Wash left with Tucker to give Simmons and Grif some alone time, he didn’t expect to see either of them again so shortly. He definitely didn’t expect __Grif__ to come storming after them some hours later, announcing himself by stomping loudly down their walkway before he burst into their cell.

Tucker squinted at him. “What the fuck, dude? Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Sit up, both of you. I want some _goddamn_ answers.” Grif’s voice cracked, but he didn’t seem aware of it.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at them impatiently as they sat upright.

Tucker was first to move, to disentangle himself from Wash. He made no attempt to straighten himself up, but Wash made a quick attempt to smooth at his hair, and tried to cover the red flush that had crept up onto every inch of observable skin.

“I thought you were with Simmons,” he said, pointedly.

“I _was,”_ Grif snapped. “I _was_  there. While he cried and shook and mumbled some shit, I wasthere. When he tried to stay awake before he finally dozed off like he _always_ does after a good cry, _I was there._  And when he started having fucking nightmares almost immediately, guess what? I was fucking there!”

Tucker sought out Wash’s hand. “What’s your point?” 

“What’s going on?” Wash asked, at the same time. “Did you find out what happened?”

Grif ignored Wash, turned his gaze to Tucker. “My _point_  is that I want to know what the _fuck_  is going on.”

“You know as much as we do, dude,” Tucker responded.

_“Really?_ Then tell me what the fuck it is that you know, because clearly it’s something I don’t!”

Tucker shared a clueless look with Wash before he turned back to Grif. “Uh, dickhead cornered Simmons, Simmons got upset, Wash and I came busting in to save the day? Look, dude, you need to chill out. I know he’s upset, but come on. You know how he gets after he’s been bullied.”

“Yeah, I do, and you know what else I know? I know that something else is fucking going on, because _that wasn’t normal!”_

_“What’s_ not normal? That he hasn’t been bullied in a while because of you? It’s bound to have happened eventually, I don’t get why you’re yelling at us about it!”

“What’s going on?” Wash interrupted again, because it was something more _ _,__ and Grif returned his focus to him with a twitch.

_“This!_  Everything! His nightmares, how he’s acting — he wouldn’t stop _crying,_ he’s always tired nearly immediately but this time he was fucking exhausted, but he still tried not to sleep— and his _arms_  —”

“What about his arms?”

The question was careful, and Washington was afraid of crossing a line even as he said it. Simmons’ habits weren’t a secret from the group, but it was never anything that had been directly addressed before.

“You _know_ what,” Grif shot back. “When he fucking cries all night and—”

“I know that,” Wash cut in, voice hard. “I meant — what about them _now?”_

“Have you _seen_ them?” Grif demanded. “Have you actually taken a fucking look?”

Wash bristled. “No _ _,__ I haven’t. I don’t pry into other people’s private lives.”

“Well— fuck, _fine,_ good! But now it’s just…”

This gave Wash pause, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Tucker still, and look at Grif warily. “What?” he asked, before Wash could.

“They’re just— they’re _bad._ I haven’t seen him do that to himself since he got here, when he was trying to kill himself all the time—”

He cut off, abruptly, and despite the ease with which he’d mentioned that fact before, it brought a storm of thunderous emotions to darken his bright eyes.

“Did you leave him alone?”

Wash’s question was careful, but Grif nodded and brushed it away. “He’s asleep. He won’t wake up for ages, he sleeps like a baby after he cries something out. Whatever’s wrong is really fucking him up. He’s barely slept in days, and when he does he has nightmares. Really _bad_  nightmares.”

His voice had begun to take on a tone borderline desperate, but he was quick to reign himself in, and he fixed Wash with a steely glare that said it all. Wash eyed his demeanour carefully and came to a conclusion.

“And you think we would know what was wrong.”

Brown eyes met grey, and Grif glared up at him.

“You’re telling me you _don’t?”_

“What are you saying?” Tucker interrupted, shuffling closer to Wash. “Should we? He probably already told you, but we got there like _after_ whatever went down, went down. I think Ripley was trying to leave, or something, because he was looking down the hall when we got there.”

“Huh?”

Tucker gestured vaguely. “The dude! That upset Simmons — that made him so scared?”

Grif frowned. “He barely even mentioned him.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about? What else would he be crying about? The dude got cornered in the bathroom by one of Felix’s kids, I’d be scared shitless too!”

“He’s been doing this for _days._ Like yeah, something happened today, and it’s obviously bad, but I think it’s tying into something bigger!”

Wash didn’t hear that. His gaze had suddenly shifted to Tucker. “One of Felix’s kids?” he interrupted, when Tucker went to respond.

Tucker shot him a look. “Yeah, dude — the ones he can just boss around because he’s fucking high and mighty. I don’t know what he’d want with Simmons, and — I mean…”

He trailed off and looked at Grif, who nodded. “Everyone knows not to go near Simmons,” he stated. “Or I’ll fuck their lives up.”

Wash blinked. “What? _You—_ how?”

“You’re forgetting who gives them all those drugs you hate so much, Wash.”

The condescending tone raised Washington’s hackles. “No, actually. I’m _not.”_

Tucker stepped in between them. “Hold on. Dude, Grif, if you want answers, you’re going to have to give us some first. Like, why the hell is it so important that you left him to come be a dick to us when you __know__ he hates being alone, and second, __why__ do you think it involves us?”

Grif trained his gaze on Washington. “Not both of you,” he said, lowly. “Just _him.”_

Tucker looked even more bewildered. “Wash? Why?”

“You tell me. I bet you _he’d_ know.”

“He wouldn’t— Wash?”

Wash’s confusion thickened, doubled and tripled as Grif’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t… I’m sorry, what?”

It only served to make Grif’s anger double, and he jabbed an accusatory finger in Wash’s direction.

_“Maybe,_ just _maybe,_ because every time he said _anything,_ it had to do with you. Not just when he was awake, no, like that wasn’t bad enough when he wouldn’t tell me what was going on, only kept mentioning you, but when he was half-asleep and already twisting and turning and he said _no, Wash— don’t hurt me.”_

Wash was vaguely aware that he took a step back. He was thunderstruck, reeling as he registered again and again what Grif had said. Tried to make it make sense. Failed. Tried again.

“Me?” He choked around the word. _“Why?”_

“You tell me,” Grif said again, but some of his vehemence had abated. He was watching Wash closely, and he couldn’t refute the genuine shock in Wash’s expression, or the blank eyed look of confusion that crept over his face.

“Me?” Wash whispered again, so quietly it was nearly silent. Finally, he turned his eyes to Grif, his mouth shaped soundlessly over his words for a few moments before he caught his voice again. “Hurt him? Why would he say that? What… what else did he say?”

He dimly felt Tucker fall into place at his side, and a moment later his warm hand asserted itself in his conscious awareness as it wrapped itself around Wash’s once more. Wash let himself sink into it, gratefully, until he realised that Grif hadn’t given him an answer.

_“Why?”_ he repeated, his voice suddenly tight.

“I don’t know.”

Tucker’s voice rang out. “What else did he say, Grif?”

Grif tightened his arms across his chest and eyed them both suspiciously. Tucker stood firm by his side, unrelenting against Grif’s stare, and Wash felt warmth run through him and begin to melt the icy grip that had formed around his heart at Grif’s words—

_Hurt him? Simmons?_

“Not much else,” Grif finally admitted, when neither of them relented. “Just kept saying your name. And, you know, when he _begged you not to—”_

“Anything else?” Wash demanded, his eyes slipping shut as if he could stop himself from hearing the end of Grif’s sentence. “Any _one_ else?”

His tone was sharper again, determination and no small amount of anger running through him and chasing the lingering fog of confusion and shock away.

“Nope. Just you, and the gym, and—”

Wash’s voice was tight. “The gym?”

He felt a squeeze on his hand, and it brought so much unexpected reassurance that he squeezed back. Grif only frowned even harder.

“I don’t _know,_ he barely mentioned it. He mentioned Felix, too, but I don’t know what the fuck that’s got to do with it aside from Ripley. I _told_  you he wasn’t making any goddamn sense.”

Wash’s heart dropped into his stomach and he was suddenly _cold._

“What did he say about Felix?” he whispered, but he went unheard over Tucker’s sudden cry.

_“What?_ Him?! What’s _he_ got to do with it?”

Grif stepped back, uncertainty creeping across his features.

“What did he _say,_ Grif?” Wash asked again, and his expression had darkened so rapidly that Grif took another step back.

“Uh— Uh, he, I don’t know! He just mentioned him once or twice, said something about the gym—”

“Did he sound afraid?”

Even Tucker’s demanding questions came to a halt at Wash’s tone.

“Uh,” Grif managed, struggling to remember. “I— I guess. He was, y’know, crying a lot, so it was hard to tell…”

Wash withdrew into his thoughts and Tucker resumed his barrage of questions, his voice growing higher and more insistent in displeasure at the turn of events. He knew he was upset at the sudden involvement of Felix, and for the first time, Wash understood why. It barely registered with him, however; Wash could hear them both speaking, but he wasn’t listening, wasn’t really understanding what was being said as he thought back over the events.

The bathroom — what had seemed off? Simmons should have been relieved to see them, hurried to their side for protection, but instead he’d drawn away, eyes wide and fearful. Definitely fearful, but Wash only remembered that fear being directed at _him._ Not at Tucker, and not even as much at the boy who’d cornered him.

Only at Wash.

How eager he’d been to leave was nothing strange, but his behaviour had been. The way his legs had nearly given out under him when Tucker had suggested going to find Grif — nothing to do with Wash, at least not when it came to his dislike of the gym. It had been a different reason, but it had been something to do with Wash after all, and he understood all at once that Simmons hadn’t wanted to be alone with him.

The walk back. Silent, sullen, awkward. Difficult, unusual. Painful. But _fearful?_

Had Simmons been scared of him, then?

Wash thought back as hard as he could, but he couldn’t pick up anything to give it away, no clear indicator. No fear, at least not until—

Until he’d mentioned going back to Felix’s to get Tucker, and Simmons had shot him a wild-eyed look and asked him to stay. Wash had wondered why he’d asked that when everything else told him that Simmons wanted him to go. He’d assumed for protection — he was good for that, at least, if nothing else — but now he had his doubts.

Part of the reason for that doubt was standing there, staring him in the face, demanding answers he didn’t have.

Did Simmons _know?_

The thought terrified him, for a number of reasons — because he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be hiding anymore, what was okay and what wasn’t, what lines had been blurred and what lines _had_ to be, but also because if Simmons knew about what really mattered, then everything suddenly made perfect sense.

“Wait—” he began, but he never got to say what they had to wait for.

There was a loud noise, a brief shout followed by further commotion in the distance, and they all stopped to look out as the guard posted at the far end of their cell block cut past their walkway and hurried down, his radio to his mouth.

Wash had a bad feeling. From the look on Grif’s face, he felt the same, and he could sense Tucker’s sudden tension as the guard hurried past.

“Is he…”

“Where’s he….”

Grif and Tucker trailed off and looked at one another, then turned their gazes in tandem to Wash. Wash looked back, before his eyes traced the path that the guard had just taken.

“You said you left him alone.”

 That was all the incentive they needed.

Grif was the first out of the room, bursting through the open cell door and veering right. He moved down the walkway at almost a run, Wash hot on his heels. A block of lead had suddenly settled in his stomach, weighing him down, soaking up any rational thought and replacing them with tendrils of poison that whispered that there was something very, very wrong.

“Wash?”

Tucker spoke up from his side, and one quick glance sidewards showed the building worry reflected in his dark eyes, but Wash never got a chance to respond. The further they got down the walkway to Grif and Simmons’ room, the more people were suddenly milling around.

A sense of excitement buzzed in the air, thick and charging. Guards were already arriving to disperse them as Grif, Tucker and Wash forced their way through the crowd.

“Simmons!” Grif finally burst out, and he used his size to push people out of the way, Tucker at his back. “Is that my cell? That’s my fucking — _Simmons!”_

He’d arrived at the open cell door to his room, and Wash already knew what he’d find there. While Grif and Tucker had been focused on forcing their way through, Wash had let himself fall back, focused on the deafening whispers surrounding him.

_“— tried to kill himself—”_

_“— all over the floor, it’s a mess—”_

_“Apparently someone heard him scream—”_

_“— already dead—”_

Just like that, adrenaline and a sour taste of pure fear flooded through him and he forced his way forwards to the cell door. Almost immediately, he was pushed out of the way by a guard, but what he’d seen in the split second he’d looked over Grif’s shoulder as Grif had stumbled forwards had shown him what he didn’t want to see, had never wanted to see, would never be able to forget—

Simmons, lying deathly still on Grif’s bunk, in the middle of a pool of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW for suicidal themes, heavy blood mention. Please let me know if I need to tag anything else!


	35. it comes, slowly, in the dawning light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for the support.

The detention centre had been sent into lockdown.

They were hurried away in a flow of anxious faces while the lights disappeared and flooded the world with red. Wash knew what was coming but couldn’t have prepared for it, and when the sirens tore the air apart around them he clutched Tucker with the white-knuckled desperation of panic.

His blood seemed to swell in his veins and make the world shudder around him, impenetrable, the air unbreatheable, but Tucker’s hands were on his shoulders, holding him tight.

_“—got you, Wash—”_

Somehow, he did. Tucker _had_ him, and his hand slid from Wash’s shoulder up his neck, where it cupped there gently for the briefest second, before he released him to grab his wrist. Wash was pulled somewhere, but direction had lost meaning to him in the world of confusion—

_—Tucker’s warm hands—_

__—__ stumbling, being pulled along _ _—__

 _ _—__ Simmons bleeding out on the bed only just behind him.

He stopped, abruptly. He felt Tucker get tugged to a halt, watched him turn back to face him. His own eyes were wide with an aching fear, and Wash wanted to reach out towards him, but Simmons was the other way and he needed help.

Tucker seemed to read his mind.

 _“—nothing we can do,”_ Wash heard, and he shook his head desperately. _“No, Wash—”_

He wasn’t listening. He pulled away again, tried to turn back to Simmons’ cell, to where Grif was struggling with the guards at the door. He’d help him. He’d throw himself in there, and he could at least take some of them to the ground while Grif got to Simmons, and he could stem the blood and hold him and—

 _“You’re not leaving me alone! You’ll—”_ Tucker’s voice found him in between the brief dip of the sirens. His head snapped to the side. Tucker’s eyes were impossibly wide, imploring.  _“— solitary, Wash— I need you—”_

Wash slackened, and Tucker seemed to sense that his words had gotten through. Maybe it was the briefest give of Wash’s resistance as Tucker’s words sought him out and thrummed its way through him.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Tucker said again, and this time Wash didn’t hear him. He saw it, in the soft, broken shapes that Tucker’s mouth made, illuminated by the red glow.

He ached for him. He needed Tucker too.

The moment he stopped pulling away, Tucker was tugging at him again. The last of the crowd was dissipating around them, and the longer they stood there the more trouble they were in. With one last glance backwards, Wash let himself be led away.

All around them, the sirens went on. Beneath it, Grif’s shouts, echoing in between the impossible noise, filling in the gaps with a devastating anguish that drew his words into a howl.

“Let me _go,_ you son of a bitch!That’s my room! That’s my bed! That’s my—”

 _His everything_ , Wash understood, as the sirens drowned out the noise once more.

He gripped harder to Tucker’s hand, and Tucker clutched him back. It hurt, the strength with which they were holding onto each other, but the pain gave him something to focus on, a pinpoint of clarity amongst his racing heartbeat and the deafening chaos. Something to hold onto, something to help him breathe.

“Keep going, Wash,” Tucker told him, and Wash did _ _.__ Even though his legs felt like blocks of lead and every step was carving through stone, and every part of him was screaming to go back, to help Simmons, to make them let go of Grif.

Because Tucker was by his side, and if he left Tucker he’d end up in solitary, and they’d both be alone through this. And the last time he’d left someone alone _ _—__

_So still, a pale face with a smear of blood pressed against the mattress, so calm amongst the chaos that he almost seemed asleep._

He shuddered. A physical urge to go back, or the symptomatic release of the tension clawing its way through him, the shudders began wracking through him and did not stop.

Ignorant to his thoughts, to the pounding desperate pleads that begged for silence, the sirens screamed, and for a long time they did not stop. As Simmons was taken away, as Tucker led Wash blindly through the halls; as Donut and Caboose whispered on to each other. As Sarge sat, still as stone, unmoving.

As Locus shook his head down at his interlocked hands, wished that Felix would stop delving deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole he’d created for himself, because soon Locus wouldn’t be able to reach down far enough to pull him out, they screamed.

As Felix lay on his bed and smiled a horrible smile up at the ceiling, they screamed, and they did not stop screaming until Grif’s cell had been cleaned and all the traces of blood were gone and it left just him, alone, in a shaking world of silence on the floor.

For Wash and Tucker, it ended abruptly. It wasn’t the final closing of Grif’s cell door that signified the sudden, deafening quiet and return of the regular fluorescent lights; it was just the passing of one long, painful second into the next, the passage of time that went on even when they wanted it to stop.

And when the sirens _did_ finally cut off, and Wash felt like he could breathe again, they had no choice but to face it.

Wash opened his eyes and turned to Tucker. No words came to him, but it looked like Tucker had a million things to say, his mouth opening and closing, his jaw working furiously, and his eyes shining dangerously in the light.

“What _happened?”_

It took Wash several seconds to realise Tucker had spoken, several more to come up with a response, but by then Tucker had sat abruptly onto the cold floor. He looked up at Wash with dark, sorrowful eyes.

“Why would he do that?”

His own knees trembling beneath him, Wash sat next to him. “I don’t know, Tucker.”

He didn’t. His mind raced, but he couldn’t seem to form coherent thoughts. He closed his eyes to try and force some semblance of reason, of sense, but all he could see was the blood that had seeped lifelessly from Simmons’ still arms, where it had ran from the deep gashes that had run from his wrists to halfway down his elbow.

At least one of them had hit his artery, Wash knew. He’d been able to tell from the first glance, but the way it had burned into his mind meant that he couldn’t __stop__ seeing it.

“Do you think…” Tucker managed, before he clenched his teeth and stifled a broken noise.

Wash’s arms were around him again in an instant, pulling him closer in the next. Tucker didn’t put up any resistance, let himself get tugged gently into Wash’s arms. His head fell against Wash’s chest and he seemed to collapse into him, curling up, trembling so hard that Wash could only try and wrap him tighter.

They both shook. They bit back the tears that threatened to run down their faces, and neither of them actually _cried_ — they just held one another in silence, let their pain seep together, bleed together, until there was so much of it that it threatened to pour out of them, staining the sheets and spilling onto the floor.

* * *

Time seemed to pass slowly. Minutes dragged past and turned into an hour, two, more, until the time that they could do anything passed and the cell doors remained locked tight. Some of the rooms were empty, Wash guessed, by the continuous rounds of headchecks — evidently, there were some people who didn’t make it back to their cells in time.

If Tucker hadn’t pulled him through the halls, Wash knew that he would have been one of them.

He barely brought himself back to reality enough to check whether Felix had made it, but one tight glance over there showed him laying down on his top bunk, staring at the ceiling.

Wash didn’t know what to make of that.

As he ran one hand carefully up and down Tucker’s arm, his thoughts strayed to his friends; to Donut and Caboose, even to Sarge, though he knew he could handle himself better. And __Grif…__

He wouldn’t have left the room, Wash knew that much. He _couldn’t_ have. He knew that if Grif had any choice in the matter, he would have followed Simmons all the way down to the medical bay and staunchly refused to leave his side.

Unfortunately, both for him and for Simmons, Wash knew he wouldn’t have been able to. He’d have to go where they directed him, while they cleaned up whatever mess was left of Simmons’—

Simmons’—

Simmons’ _what?_ Suicide attempt?

The words sent a ripple of sadness and despair through him, and Tucker’s arms tightened around him instinctively.

“It’s fine,” he said, automatically, before he realised just how untrue that sentence was.

Tucker didn’t comment on it. His hold tightened around him and he buried his face further into Wash’s shoulder. The feeling of thankfulness and warmth chased away some of the settling cold.

Another round of guards went by, and Wash followed their path closely. He’d already identified the pattern: three different duos of guards, every fifteen minutes. They didn’t seem to be looking for anything in particular, but they still went around like clockwork until all at once, they stopped coming.

Shortly after that, a voice echoed tinnily around the walkways. _“Due to the interruption in schedule, dinner will not be served. Breakfast will be served at the regular time tomorrow morning.”_

That was it. No explanation, no answers, not even a hint to what had actually happened — just a clipped, uninterested announcement over a message system that Wash had forgotten about.

He shook, again, and Tucker finally lifted his head to look at him. Although he hadn’t cried, his eyes were still swollen and red rimmed from all the tears he’d fought back, and when he spoke his voice was tight and heavy, weighed down with pain.

“You okay?”

Wash blinked at him for a second before he nodded. “I— yes. Are you?”

“No. One of my best friends just tried to kill himself, and I don’t even have the faintest fucking clue whether or not he succeeded.”

“I—”

Tucker pulled back. “Why would you say you’re okay, Wash?”

“I just… I didn’t mean…” Wash trailed off, soft and unable to piece together his broken words.

Next to him, Tucker trembled, and blew out a long sigh that seemed to send with it all the remaining strength he'd had. He collapsed into Wash's arms as they wrapped around him once more and swallowed. “Sorry. I know. I just— sorry.”

“It’s okay."

“It’s _not,_  Wash. He— he hasn’t tried that in so long. In over a year, since the beginning, since he __got here__. He tried then, but we didn’t know him then, and we do now, and he hasn’t tried in so long so __why__  would he try it now—”

“Tucker,” he said, softly.

Tucker moaned in frustration and pulled at his hair. “I don’t fucking __understand__. He’s been bullied before, and I know he’s got some shit to deal with but, I mean— he’s never gone this far like this in so long, so __why__?”

Wash followed along with Tucker’s thoughts and made himself think about it. “Grif did say that he’s been… worse, lately.”

“Well no _shit,_ Wash—”

He winced. “I mean in terms of how he… hurts himself. He mentioned that that has… been worse.”

“I _know,_ I was _there,_ but _why?_  Why? Why was that worse, and why has he been so down lately, and what the _fuck_ has him so fucked up that he’s gotten to this point? I — I saw those cuts, Wash, he — he wasn’t fucking around.”

“Tucker…”

“He couldn’t be dead, Wash. He can’t be. He’s Simmons. He __can’t__ be.”

There was a desperate fervour in Tucker’s voice, evidence of how hard he was trying to convince himself. But Wash had seen it too much before: he’d been witness to death more times than he could count, the bringer of it half as often, and he knew how easily one could cross the fragile line and not come back from it.

Tucker seemed to read into his thoughts and turned his head to the side, averting his gaze so he wouldn’t have to see the doubt on Wash’s face. Wash ached to reassure him, but nothing within him would come with words that he didn’t even believe were true.

“We don’t know,” he said, finally, because it was the only thing he could say, the only truth.

Tucker started to say something and cut off with a choking noise. Wash tugged him closer, rubbed his hand up and down his back as comfortingly as he could. He was unfamiliar to this, but he was hurting too, and so he tried his best to radiate the understanding and warmth that Tucker gave him just by being there; tried to take some of Tucker’s pain away, to ease some of the agony in his voice, to _comfort._

But he didn’t have Tucker’s magic touch in him, or the soothing words and comforting tone that brought back memories of being loved in a life that he didn’t even know that he’d had. He had to settle with just __trying__ , with trying to emit all the warmth and caring that he could, with trying to let Tucker know that he was here, that he knew, that he understood.

Eventually, the lights blinked off, and they were cast into darkness.

Some of the shivers still running through him were courtesy of the cold floor beneath them, and Wash knew that if he was cold, there was a good chance Tucker was, too. He ran his hand along his shoulder blades and down his arms, and sure enough, there were goose bumps everywhere his fingers brushed.

“We need to get up,” he murmured, and extracted himself from Tucker’s grip long enough to pull him to his feet.

There, he guided them backwards in the sudden pitch black to his bed, where he sat Tucker down and stayed standing, an invisible hesitation the only indication of his uncertainty.

“Do you want me to—”

“No.”

“… I’m not sure you knew what I was going to say, Tucker.”

“Was it something about you offering to take my bed?” Tucker’s voice was hoarse.

“Well… yes, actually. I just thought you might want to stay down here.”

“I do.”

Wash blinked owlishly in the darkness, and tried not to think about how he reminded himself of Simmons. “Okay,” he said, softly, and began to move.

Tucker’s hand darted out, and with unexpected precision, caught around Wash’s wrist.

“Stay.”

Wash’s heart found itself in his throat. “Are — are you sure?”

Tucker sighed and lay back on Wash’s bed, and Wash found himself being pulled gently down after him. With some hesitation, he positioned himself between Tucker and the wall, giving Tucker enough space between them that he sighed.

“I just don’t want to be by myself,” Tucker finally said, an explanation that Wash held onto. “I can’t stop seeing that, and I can’t stop thinking about Grif being alone, and I just— I don’t want to be by myself.”

Wash understood. His hesitation vanished for the most part, and it was only with caution that he let himself lie flat next to Tucker. He was tense and unsure, but as the minutes ticked by with only Tucker’s quiet breathing, eventually Wash let himself relax enough for his leg to rest lightly against Tucker’s.

“Do you think you’ll sleep?” Tucker asked him, his words barely more than a breathy whisper.

Wash shook his head.

“Me neither.”

With that, Tucker wormed his way further down and turned on his side. He kicked one leg up, just barely, to let the tip of his knee rest over Wash’s, and buried his face into his shoulder. It was a movement and a position that was quickly becoming somewhat familiar to both of them, but this time it was different. Closer, warmer, more intimate in the darkness and the privacy than anything they’d experienced.

And, Wash realised, as he finallyfelt some of Tucker’s tension seep away, dissipating into the air around them, exactly what they needed. 

The only promise of light in a suddenly dark world. 

* * *

The night was rough.

Freezing, unwelcoming, a hostile blanket of suffocating darkness and relentless thoughts pounding down locked doors.

_Is he dead? Is he alive? Is he dead? Why?_

Sleep didn’t come at all to Washington, and by the bleary, glassy-eyed look on Tucker’s face that met him the next morning, it was clear that it had been rare and fitful for him, too. They disentangled themselves quickly, pulling apart the moment that the lights flickered on, and Tucker was quick to slip off the side and plant himself on the desk before the guards began to pass.

Wash was left in his suddenly empty bed, with the warmth fading as quickly as the remnant feeling of Tucker’s skin pressed against his. He hadn’t slept, no, but the feeling of Tucker tucked up against him, safe and secure, had been enough to ease his mind and prevent it from going into overdrive all night.

He’d been thinking, carefully, about the events of the previous days. He’d ran every last scenario over in his mind repeatedly, pulled them apart, picked apart clues and giveaways and things that he’d been too blind in the moment to see, and he was getting the inkling that he already knew the answer that he was searching for.

They were silent, and as soon as head checks finished and the doors opened they slipped down the walkway and began navigating their path to Grif’s cell at a near run. Drawing suspicion and attention would inevitably be a bad thing, but neither of them could help the urgency in their walk, the hurry to close the distance between their starting point and their end destination: Grif’s cell.

He was lying on his bunk, facing the wall, when they got there. The mattress was missing from Simmons’ buck, and it was clear what had happened: they’d taken Grif’s mattress, so he had replaced it with Simmons’.

Wordlessly, they exchanged a glance, and Tucker was the first to step into Grif’s room and approach him.

“Any word?” he asked, quietly, and glanced at Wash when Grif didn’t answer.

“Grif?” Washington called, and took several steps forward into the room but kept himself near the exit. “Have you heard anything? Is Simmons—”

 _“Alive?”_  Donut burst in, careening through the cell door and into the room, before he skidded to a stop in front of Grif’s bed.

A moment later, he threw himself onto it, and tugged with all his might to make Grif face them. Tucker joined in, and before Wash could hesitantly approach to lend a hand, Caboose had entered, following Donut’s entry with far less enthusiasm — he walked slowly, and he drooped as if the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders. Regardless, he pulled Grif over in one sure, easy move, and they sat back and stared at him as he stared back.

“Leave me alone,” he groaned a moment later, and tried to roll away.

“Stop that,” Donut commanded. “We need to find out if Simmons is okay. Do you have any news?”

“Well _obviously_  I don’t fucking know.” Although he’d intended to sound cold and uncaring, his voice cracked painfully halfway through.

Before anyone could respond, Sarge moved through the doorway, and crossed the room in several quick, sure strides.

“Sorry I’m late, had to shake off them guards. Now, how is he?”

“I don’t _know._ I don’t fucking know.”

“Surely you must have heard _something,”_ Donut pressed, and exchanged a worried glance with Tucker.

“Well surely _not,_  because I haven’t. Do you think I’d just be sitting here if I had?”

“Where else would you be?”

“Somewhere, doing something! Not just sitting here, useless!”

“So you really haven’t heard a thing,” Wash pressed, because he _had_ to be sure.

“No! Goddamn it, now go away and stop asking!”

“We’re not moving an inch,” Sarge said gruffly, and kicked himself up against the desk for good measure.

“Definitely not,” Donut agreed.

Wordlessly, everyone found a spot in Grif’s room to sit, to think, to be.

“Fine. I don’t fucking _care_  what you do,” Grif muttered, and turned petulantly to face the wall again.

Nobody said anything. They knew he was suffering, that he was hurting more than any of them, even if he refused to acknowledge it. Wash could __see__ how he drew in on himself, how he occasionally twitched and trembled, and every now and then he’d jerk abruptly, as if resisting the urge to bat a bad thought away.

It hurt to watch, but it hurt even more to wait, stuck in the seemingly endless limbo, not knowing if their friend was dead, if there was even a chance that he was alive.

They didn’t, however, have to wait for very long. They glanced up in unison, each of them wary and suspicious, when someone stood in the door to the room and hesitated there.

Sarge and Wash stood first, shared a glance, and stepped towards the newcomer in unison.

“What do you want, son?” Sarge asked, and Doc began without preamble.

“He’s… alive. Still. For now. He’s not awake, he’s not even _stable,_ really, but… we need to see Grif.”

Although the good news was punctuated with bad, there was still a beat of silence, a glacial drop of tangible, breatheable __relief.__

“Thank _god,”_ Donut murmured, in a wavering voice on the edge of tears, and then everyone began talking at once.

“How is he? Is he okay?”

“What _happened?”_

“What do you mean not really stable? And can we all go?”

“How come Grif’s allowed to see him?”

They all broke off when Grif stepped through everyone and stood in front of Doc.

“Let’s _go,”_ he snapped, and he began walking before Doc did.

“Wait—” Doc started, but Grif wheeled on him, eyes blazing and a face of fury.

_“Now!”_

His shout echoed down the hall and Doc winced before he scrambled after him. “This is important!” he shouted back at them. “None of you go anywhere! I’ll be back, you hear me? Stay where you are, Wash!”

He hurried after Grif and left the five of them in the cell that none of them owned, staring at each other. Wash glanced at Tucker, and saw the same question forming on his lips — why did he single him out?

“Well that’s not happening,” Sarge decided, and started out after them.

“Wait, Sarge — what are you doing?”

“It’s not like red team to sit back and just let things happen without us. We’re going to find out what in blue _hell_  is going on.”

Donut hurried to his side, and Wash and Tucker nodded to each other before they turned to Caboose. He stared at them with doleful eyes, and they separated to let him walk between them as they made their way out into the walkway.

Sarge was grumbling up ahead. “If _Grif_ can get near Simmons when he’s in this state, then I don’t see why we can’t either.”

Donut spoke hesitantly. “It didn’t sound good, Sarge. I think they need to ask him some stuff. Maybe we should have stayed back there, Doc doesn’t usually order people around _ _—__ ”

“Nonsense. If he had the time to come and get Grif, then he should be able to answer all our questions too.”

“But I think he was trying to get answers _ _—__ ”

Tucker cut in. “They never let anyone in.”

Sarge shook his head. “Exactly. For them to make an excuse for _Grif_ is just utterly unacceptable.”

He marched on, tall and broad shouldered, and they followed closely behind him, drawn together by his determination. Before long, they arrived at the corridor leading to the medical bay, but from there they got no further. A guard stood posted at the far end of the hall, and stood forward to stop them as they approached.

“Our friend just came down here,” Donut explained. “With Doc. See, our other friend Simmons is in there—”

“You can’t be down here. This is restricted access.”

“But our friend just got let through, and—”

“The head nurse requested him. She definitely didn’t request anyone else. Return to the mess hall for breakfast, because none of you are allowed down here.”

Sarge hesitated. “Or what?” he tested, and the guard fixed him with a flat look.

“ _ _Or__ I’ll have you all down for not adhering to the schedule. _Move.”_

Everyone seemed to share a glance, before they relented.

“Come on, let’s go to _breakfast,”_ Tucker said, meaningfully, and they fell back.

Sarge winked at him. “Oh yes, straight to the mess hall we go. For breakfast.”

Donut, who’d looked devastated at their rejection, perked back up. “Ooh, gotcha. Loud and clear.”

Wash motioned at them to be quiet, and they did. Despite the suspicious glare of the guarding officer at the end of the hall, he didn’t challenge them on it, and the small group made their way back down the way they’d come to return to Grif and Simmons’ empty cell.

Tucker frowned. “What do we do here?”

“We wait,” Sarge answered him simply, and returned to where he’d been propped up against the desk.

“Grif would probably come straight back here,” Donut agreed. “So this is the best place to be if he comes back.”

“When he comes back,” Tucker corrected. “Doc said Simmons was… well, he’s alive, and that’s what counts. If he lived through the worst of it…”

“Then why did Maggie request Grif for him specifically?”

“Don’t worry, Donut. You were probably right, they’re just asking questions. It’s better they get answers as soon as possible.”

Sarge nodded, Caboose lifted his head a little to look skywards thoughtfully, and Donut stopped chewing at his lip. Tucker’s response seemed to make them all relax, except Wash.

“Do you want to sit down?” Tucker offered him, and Wash almost did.

He ended up remaining on his feet, driven by something uneasy and restless inside of him. His brain quickly caught up to the thought process it had been on, the one that had been simultaneously interrupted and connected into place by Doc’s arrival, his strange words, his promise. A jittery uneasiness filled him, different to the one from before, because this one seemed to creep in on a wave of fearfulness, a wariness, something that whispered __danger__.

And Doc had singled Wash out.

“I have to get out of here,” he said suddenly, half a lie, half the truth.

He _did_ need to get out, but it was because he had somewhere to go, and nothing else he could have said would have been as well received as that.

Every pair of eyes in the room returned to him, but it was Caboose who reacted first, frowning at him.

“We shouldn’t all be by ourselves.” His voice was stubborn and unhappy, and Wash winced.

“No, Caboose I — I know. I’m just going to be gone for a little bit. I’ll be back soon.”

Tucker’s eyebrows, which had raised at his first comment, were now almost at his hairline. “Okay,” he said, and Wash paused at his agreement as Tucker got to his feet. “What?”

“No,” Wash cut in immediately, voice calm but sure. “I need to go by myself. And I think… I think I need the time to just… think, I suppose.”

“Okay,” Tucker said, slowly. “You can’t think with me around?”

Wash pressed at his temples. “I need space.”

“We all do, son,” Sarge said to him, but he didn’t look his way. “But we pull together in crisis. That’s why we’ve stuck together for so long.”

“Yeah!” Donut agreed.

Caboose nodded. “And we already know being alone isn’t fun.”

Wash so badly wanted to stay. He wanted to let their enthusiasm, their _togetherness_ draw him in and keep him safe and tight, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t, because he had a slimy feeling, as if there were a snake in their midst.

As if _he_ was the snake.

“I know,” he said, so softly that it gave no indication as to his thoughts. “And I… I know. I won’t be gone long.”

Tucker was looking at him sadly, like he’d read the decisiveness in Wash’s posture, but didn’t understand why. “You’re coming back, right?”

It was Wash’s turn to blink. “Of course—” he cut off, suddenly uncertain, before he gained his thoughts back and nodded. “Yes, I am. I just need to clear my head.”

Tucker frowned, still unhappy with the response. “You’ll definitely be back for training later?”

Wash stared at him. The idea of training had vanished from his mind, and part of him wondered _how_ Tucker could possibly be thinking of it in a time like this. As if their roles had been reversed, like their world had been flipped, which in a way it had, and it only took Wash a moment to realise exactly why Tucker would still push for it.

He wasn’t as oblivious as he seemed, and Wash should have known better than to underestimate him.

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Finally, Tucker leaned back. “Alright.”

He didn’t need to add that he clearly wasn’t happy with it, and the way he watched him made Wash question whether he was really letting him leave so easily, or whether he was hatching some backwards plan to stop him. The easy agreement wasn’t Tucker, but nothing here was anything like any of them, so Wash had to take it as it came.

“Training?” Sarge asked, gruffly, before Wash could take the opportunity to leave. “That sounds suspicious. What are you blues up to? Making the most of our _temporarily_ dwindled numbers?”

 _“No,_  and nothing,” Tucker groaned. “Just practicing. You might not have noticed, Sarge, but I’m not exactly a prize fighter.”

Sarge snorted. “You can say that again. I don’t even think you’d win in a fight against Donut.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, princess. That’s good news for us, though.”

Tucker shook his head, but he hadn't taken his eyes from Wash. "I’ll see you soon?” He’d noticed him backing away, and his words were laden with meaning.

“You will,” Wash promised him again, and Tucker crossed his arms.

“Good. Apparently I don’t even look like I could beat _Donut,_ so we clearly have a long way to go.”

Wash nodded and reached the exit. Everyone had been distracted, bar Caboose, who was watching him heavily. The weight of his stare made Washington uncomfortable, so he broke his gaze and focused on taking the opportunity to leave.

Sarge harrumphed behind him. “Right. Donut, get over here. Too much blue around, I don’t like these numbers.”

For once, he was right. Simmons was well and truly out of commission, and there was no doubt that Grif would be as much help as he was until Simmons recovered. Which he would, Wash told himself. He was awake, and he’d survived this far. That meant he was out of the worst of it, and unless anything else happened…

He stiffened, and thought again about the reason for his awkward departure. He hadn’t been lying — he truly needed to clear his head. There were too many unanswered questions cluttering it up, too much speculation and guesswork when he needed concrete evidence and real answers.

He knew where he could get the answers to the questions he harboured, knew that one person was involved, but he didn’t know __how__.

He didn’t understand how it all connected, but he knew that the pieces painted a bad, bad picture, and he needed to make it all fall into place. The one person who seemed to hold the last of the pieces was the last person Wash wanted to see.

He just wished he’d kissed Tucker before he’d left.

After he let that thought weigh on his mind, oddly _heavy,_ laden with an unseen promise of finality and tinged with regret, he finally allowed himself to focus. To let the world fade out around him, forget the look in Caboose's eye as he'd seen right through him, until it was just the floor beneath his feet and his thoughts in his head. His mind was a jumbled mess, everything flitting rapidly past as rapidly as he could register it.

For the most part, his conscious thoughts told him what he’d already figured out, what he’d already pieced together with what Grif had told him, what Simmons had told him.

What Tucker had been telling him all along.

And there it was: a solid, shining truth unlike anything he’d felt lately. His previous certainties had dulled in comparison, seemed weaker, greyer, less _true_ and less _certain_ and more like something that had been created, manufactured, an artwork designed just for him.  

* * *

 

_He had no plan, and that was fine._

Instead of halting him dead in his tracks and making him reconsider, needing to have _some_ idea, not just his feet driving him onwards and his mind throwing forward ideas of what _could_ happen—

His steps were silent and quick, allowing his thoughts to echo around in his head, bringing up an old adage he’d heard some time ago, in the dark confines of his cell.

_No plan survives first contact with the enemy._

He’d learned that lesson now. Someone had taught him that, someone he’d trusted _ _.__ He knew the worst in people, but maybe this was a different kind of __worst,__ the kind that brought it out in him.

He was _angry._

It was stirring up within him the beginning of an inferno, simmering and muted by the shroud of uncertainty and the pinpoint needles of betrayal that stabbed at him like acid rain, but it was starting to burn nonetheless. He had answers, something he could grasp at and hold onto as a lifeline, and every pull brought him closer and closer, adding fuel to the feeding flames.

He couldn’t see it all yet, but he could see enough. The long, slender fingers. Meticulously crafting the web he knewhe’d caught himself in, but for the first time could see who’d woven it.

_What had Felix done?_

He saw Ripley first, and the anger fired up unexpectedly inside him. It seared through him, burning a trailing path that had him closing the distance between them and slamming Ripley into the wall.

Ripley’s reaction was instantaneous, and if Wash had been thinking, very predictable. He shook himself slightly, already turning to throw a punch in Wash’s direction, but Wash pinned him further against the wall.

“Get the fuck _off_ me—”

Wash was ready, prepared to retaliate and counter whatever movement Ripley did next, but it turned out to be unnecessary. Ripley broke off to stare at him, then after a moment jerked his arms and shoulders up to loosen Wash’s grip on him.

“What the fuck do __you__ want?” he spat at the same time, and Wash considered for a moment before he abruptly released him and backed away a step, blinking at the realisation of what he’d done.

He wanted to ask why Ripley hadn’t attacked him, surprised at the lacking response to his provocation, but there was something else, another burning question that mattered more, that meant everything.

_“What did you to do Simmons?”_

“Uh, who?”

The wrong thing to say. Wash bristled. _“Simmons,”_ he uttered, and there was no mistaking the sharp threat in his voice.

“The red head? Oh, Jesus Christ, I told you. He got in my way, I didn’t appreciate it,” Ripley responded, but something in his response was wrong, something about the whole situation was wrong, and Wash shook his head.

 _“Tell me._ Everything that went down.”

Ripley stared at him as if he was an idiot. “He got in my way, and I was going to teach him a lesson. You were there, don’t you already know?”

There it was again. The implication that he was involved somehow more than he knew, and it was unacceptable. He felt his lips pull back over his teeth, a half-snarl that showed more than he could have said, and Ripley was quick to change what he said.

“Listen, I _told_ you what happened. I—”

“The _truth.”_

A final, calculating look, one that sent that fire burning through him and his hands clenching into fists.

“Seems to me,” Ripley said, finally, “like you already know.”

There it was. It was an answer that should have had Wash _moving,_  and in his mind he was — he’d already flown back towards him and slammed Ripley back against the wall again, and again, demanding to know what that meant, what was that supposed to _tell him?_

He didn’t, because he knew.

He knew. He _fucking—_

“Where is he?”

He knew that, too. He pulled back, stepped away, suddenly aware of how wild he looked, his hair in his eyes and his jaw clenched so tightly his entire head hurt. He moved back a step further, turned towards the door, and Ripley’s words rang out behind him.

“Who _are_ you?” he asked, punctuated with a half laugh, but there was something else in his eyes when they met with Wash’s. An uncertainty, incredulous and wary, as if Washington himself was a riddle that couldn’t be figured out.

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t, and he fell silent as Wash finally turned to head towards the gym. He knew, without looking around, that Ripley wouldn’t be far behind him. Words from the other day ran around and around in his mind — Ripley was one of _Felix’s_ boys. That was why he hadn’t asked when Wash had asked “ _where is he? _”__ because there was really only one person that Wash could have been talking about.

It all came down to Felix, and Wash had realised that far, far too late.

Everything within him intensified, the urgency that drove him forward, fed by the growing fire of anger and betrayal.

Simmons had been hurt. Badly, irrevocably hurt, and it was Wash’s fault. He didn’t know who else could be in danger, and he couldn’t  shake the feeling that waiting would only mean something worse.

He _needed_ answers, to arm himself with the knowledge to protect them all, because he’d finally seen where he was standing in the midst of this. Between Doc’s careful directions, between Simmons’ urgency, between _everything_ — it was clear to him, now. And for it, he faced a startling realisation, black and white and as true to its core as it was astounding.

As he closed the distance between himself and the gym, Felix, _Locus,_ for the first time in his life, his instincts weren’t driving him to protect himself. He’d spent his entire life on the cautionary side, on the _self-preserving_ side, an unerring constant, something to fall back on when everything else was torn from his grasp.

Now, though, there was something else. The one thing that could drive Wash into danger, into the unknown, with nothing at his side and no one at his back. The one thing that could convince him to do something new and unplanned.

Something stupid. Something _self-sacrificing._

His friends.

He had visions of the constellations of freckles splayed across his shoulders, had the sudden feeling as if the earth was shaking beneath him. Wondered what it meant, but didn’t have time to to think, because he was at the door to his greatest fear and now he had to face it.

He didn’t calculate his choices, because somehow, he knew they’d already long been made.


	36. blood red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (just a quick heads up, after next chapter there will be a 3 week hiatus while i go back home for a visit)
> 
> so, here's part 1.

The doors to the gym felt heavy and cold, and they seemed to resist as he pushed against them. With his palms flat against the cold, they slowly swung open, revealing the room inside. Several boys lined the walls, seeming not to pay attention to him as he stepped in, too focused on the equipment around them.

It was quiet, except for the sound of Ripley shutting the door behind him and the muffled sounds from the white door ahead, and—

_Felix._

Leaning against the white door with a terrible, terrible smile on his face.

Wash tensed up, felt the world shrink to a pinpoint. Everything closed in on him as he stepped forward once, then again, and wondered why it seemed like Felix was looming up when it was _Wash_  who was crossing the floor to him.

“Oh, Wash,” Felix greeted, cheerily. “What good timing. Locus _just_ stepped out.”

It shouldn’t have shocked him, but it did. The unflinching ease with which Locus’ name slipped from Felix’s lips, familiar and warm and not at all how it had ever been said before.

“What are you here for?” Felix asked, in that same easy, silken tone. “Let me guess. You want to know __why.__ Why’d you do it, Felix? Why’d you do all this? Why’d you so _cunningly_ betray me?”

Each word hurt, something different all at once. A stab to his heart but with the bluntest, dullest blade, and a kick in the face with steel tipped shoes. _I should have known,_ he thought, abruptly, wildly.

“Well don’t worry your pretty little face,” Felix purred. “I intend to tell you all about it. Settle in— actually, wait, don’t. There’s something _else_ I want from you first.”

Felix’s eyes were on him, drinking up every reaction that crossed his face, and he was reminded of the first time they'd ever met. In this place, with these emotions, as open and lost as he was now. Filled with betrayal at the unveiling of secrecy and deceit, an anger burning behind it, a cautious fear underlying it all.

Staring at those same eager, predatory eyes.

 _Ah,_ his mind seemed to think, somehow separate from him now, observing it all from far away _. I was doomed from the start._

A small part of him wanted to laugh. Of course. He hadn’t seen it then, when he’d been staring right at it. When he’d been too lost to sense the interested gaze, the sudden change in demeanour, the abrupt transition from wolf to lamb that had been clearest then, just like it was clearest now.

In Felix’s territory.

All the signs had been there. Wash just hadn’t _seen._

“I’ve gotta admit,” Felix began, his voice breathy and full now, all pretenses temporarily lost, “I underestimated this moment. The first realisation, the shock, the _betrayal—”_ His voice cracked with giddiness, and he closed some of the remaining distance between them, as if he was aware that Wash was short circuiting, unable to conjure up a defense. “I mean, I knew, obviously. I just didn’t think it would feel _this_ good.”

His breath washed over him, warm and sweet, and Wash wondered whether this had been the last thing Simmons had experienced.

That thought started small, but caught on quickly. Roots took hold and sunk deep into his brain until he had no choice but to face it, and it worked. It broke him out of his frozen state, long enough for a dim, eerie calm to wash over him, in tandem with a blank mask falling over his face, drawing his features into stone.

“Ah,” Felix breathed. “There it is. _Never_ gets old. Got any other tricks for the audience, Wash?”

He didn’t. He wasn’t thinking straight, couldn’t shake the feeling that Felix had wanted him to do that; had _expected_ it, and baited him, as easily as he’d baited him this entire time. He still felt frozen, tensed up with anger and shock and everything that would cost him, but he lifted his eyes and sought out Felix’s golden ones.

His gaze was burning hot and Felix held it carefully for several long seconds before he dropped it. There was something else there, and it passed so quickly that Wash almost didn’t see, but he was watching him so carefully that he did.

A hesitation.

They both seemed to realise it together, and Felix’s smile died. He nodded his head as if he was considering something, and the sharp, keen eyed look Wash had glimpsed only a few times was back, looking entirely natural on his face as Felix seemed to peer into him, picking him apart piece by piece until he felt like he was entirely dismantled, on show for the world to see.

Then the smile returned, because Felix had found something he wanted, and Wash realised he needed some control of the situation. The calm that had settled over him was blanketing the scorching fire underneath, but the flames were beginning to lick at the edges and as he looked around, as he counted the number of bodies near him, calculated his chances—

It wasn’t good, but that wasn’t what made him welcome the anger racing through him. The anger itself was familiar in a different way, something he’d only felt a few times before: in a flash of his hand on Tucker’s cheek, brushing against past bruises, in a rush of dangerous simmering fury at what he had faced before. A response, and a reflex intrinsic within him to protect the ones he cared about.

He realised now that _that_ was the anger he’d willingly welcome.

He’d been used, manipulated, backstabbed and betrayed in too many ways for reasons he didn’t understand. Simmons had been hurt, and Wash gone behind Tucker’s back, putting himself and his friends at risk time and time again in an orchestrated game that ended with him here: in a dark room, threats to his back but the biggest danger he’d ever faced in front of him.

When Wash snapped his eyes to him Felix seemed to revel in the fury he found there.  There was a long, drawn out moment, as Wash considered what it would be like to kill him.

“Hold onto that for just a moment,” Felix said, as if Wash had been about to speak, as if he knew what he was thinking. “I just want to cherish this for a moment more. I mean, do you know how hard I worked to get here? The __look__ on your face? I know you think you’re impenetrable, that ridiculous way you shut off, but you know what’s funny is that I can see _right_ through it.”

Wash’s heart thumped unsteadily.

“Oh, yeah,” Felix nodded. “Every time you got all worked up about something. Every time your thoughts turned to Tucker, or you got defensive, and I had to pretend to care. _Wash, I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to…”_ He laughed derisively. “You eat that shit up, you know? As soon as someone shows an _iota_ of good emotion towards you. I could push you to the edge, time and time again, and still win you back with a few carefully placed apologies, some scared looks. _Please don’t hurt me like Locus does,”_ he mimicked himself, pulling on the voice that had made Wash trust him and underlying it with an edge of mocking.

Wash tensed without intending to, because he already _knew_ that that was just another thing Felix had constructed, another lie, but the implications went deep.

“All in the price of acting,” Felix smiled. “A few flinches here, a couple slips of his name, and then of course a grand finale, because what can I say, I have a flair for the dramatic. And getting Locus to rough me up a little, oh _man._ So worth it. Barely hurt at all, and the fucking look on your face — but you know, it was more than that. It was more than just fooling you.”

Because Wash was a fool, Felix had made him a fool, and now he had to hear why.

“Not even just about about outsmarting you, although, I mean, it wasn’t hard. _That_ was too easy, and honestly? It kinda got boring after the millionth time—”

His lies, his twisted tales, how he’d fucked with Wash’s emotions and manipulated him so much that he’d shut off from the world, began to close himself, threatened to lose everything he had, almost lost _Tucker—_

“Yeah, kinda got old quick,” Felix repeated, because Wash’s eyes had flashed with anger. “ _ _Sure__ , I could get you to believe just about anything, and do just about whatever I wanted, including betray your _dearest friend_ Tucker, but… meh.”

“What do you want?” The words burst from between his clenched teeth.

Felix didn’t look surprised to hear him ask. Instead, he looked pleased, whether at the question itself or that he’d gotten Wash to speak, Wash didn’t know. “You know… I still haven’t decided. I thought it’d be fun enough just to leave it at all this, but… instead, I think I’ve finally made up my mind.”

Wash didn’t bite — not how Felix wanted. Instead, he caught on to something else, sunk his teeth into the implications that Felix had unintentionally cast away.

“What did you do to Simmons?” he demanded abruptly, to stop himself from giving anything away. He regretted the question almost as soon as he’d asked, but it was already out there, had burst from between his cracked lips and couldn’t be taken back.

Felix leveled him with an unimpressed look. “What the fuck do you think I did to him? I had someone slit his wrists, because he was becoming _really_ inconvenient.” The smile returned, wicked and cold. “I mean, I couldn’t risk him ruining everything, could I?”

Something shattered inside of Wash. He wished he could have said that he already knew, had connected it all together, but instead he’d buried it under denial that now left him frozen, afraid to move in case one of the broken pieces inside of him pierced through his heart.

“Bet that hurts, doesn’t it?”

Felix’s words were soft, sympathetic, _familiar_ in their crafted, fake nature, and cut straight through Wash’s heart _ _.__ Because it did. It did, and Felix knew it did, so he kept talking, jamming home the realisation, brutal and jarring and agonising, that this had happened to Simmons because of __him__.

“You know, it was a bit annoying at first, I’ll be honest. When I first saw him, and had to think about it. Do I just kill him now? What do I have him do? So many choices, you understand, but eventually I decided I’d have to go for the simplest one. I do have _some_ heart, after all.”

A lie. An outright fucking _lie._

Felix went on. “He actually followed you here last time, can you believe it? That sniveling little rat was __so__ worried about you that he just hadto make sure you were okay. So __touching__ ,” he said, flatly, before he leaned in. His eyes lit up and his voice wrapped itself around Wash’s name like a caress. “And you know what, _Wash?_ You ran straight past him. _Straight_ past him, like he wasn’t even there. That doesn’t seem very fair, when he risked his life to look out for you.”

Wash had felt pain before, but this was a different type of agony. The undeniable truth that compressed his heart like a vice, squeezing it tighter and tighter until it felt impossible to breathe. The _how_ Simmons could have known, the when, the why. How Wash could have saved him, how he hadn’t, being used to tear him apart.

Felix made another fake noise of sympathy, so realistic that Wash wanted to retch. “Can’t imagine how that feels,” he said, even though he was staring straight into Wash’s face, seeing it played out before him. “Can’t say I’ve ever been responsible for anyone I cared about dying, but hey, each to their own. If only you’d __seen__ him.”

That hurt as well, of course it did, but it was designed to hurt in a lot of different ways. A dozen different flavours of betrayal, just as poisonous as the next, guilt and hatred and shame and doubt and __understanding__ , mixed in there and tying it all together, because he understood what Felix had said.

He’d already known Felix had overheard the night Doc had taken him back to his cell; that he’d seen Wash breaking apart at the edges, trembling and shaking and tearing his hair out because it was too much. How _stressed_ he’d been, how frightened and confused and overwhelmed, when again, it had all been because of Felix, who had been watching him behind a mask of careful surprise.

He wondered why everything suddenly felt a little surreal. It was being laid out in front of him like a rope being strung, tightening around his neck with every word.

Felix was still speaking, and Wash wondered if he would ever stop.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, of course. After your little breakdown — watching you fall apart was _spectacular,_ by the way, out of all the times you barely held yourself together that one was the best— I thought it was all going smoothly. A bit of harmless fun.”

Harmless. Like Wash hadn’t spent weeks wrapped up in a crushing, ruling paranoia, unable to sleep more than three hours a night. Unable to see, unable to approach Tucker, unable to reach out for a lifeline when he’d been drowning without realising, thinking he had it all under control, that he was being safe.

 _Keeping Locus away from Tucker, away from all of them _.__ It was a joke. He’d been shutting himself off, scared and afraid and unable to pull away the illusion that covered his eyes to see the truth. And even then, he hadn’t seen through all of it, that the truth was just what Felix could still keep him from seeing. The spiral he’d fallen into had been created so perfectly.

He’d always wondered if he’d be buried if he died, what his coffin would look like. He knew now it would look something like this.

“Hey, Wash? Stay with me.”

Wash shivered. Had Felix _meant_ to sound like Tucker?

“I mean, I’m answering this since you asked. You _wanted_ to know how Simmons died, right?”

His words had the intended effect, but not for the reasons he’d wanted. Wash finally met his gaze again, but some of the hopelessness was gone, and Felix narrowed his eyes. He seemed more aggressive — Wash could see it, could sense Felix’s unspoken unhappiness that Washington hadn’t reacted the way he’d wanted him to.

“Tell me,” he invited, simply because he knew Felix didn’t expect him to speak.

 _“Alright._ He died screaming, I know that.”

 _No, he didn’t._ But he almost did, and that, and the fact that Felix was in front of him, taunting him about how he’d nearly killed one of Wash’s best friends—

_I’m going to kill him._

Felix was still staring at him. “I heard that he put up a bit of a fight. More than the first time I found him, anyway. I guess that self preservation instinct is strong, even if — oh, you know, I  _almost_ forgot. This bit’s good, so I hope you’re ready. The first time I found him? After you walked past him and left him here, all alone? He actually called for you. I can’t— I can’t make that up.”

_I’m going to tear him to pieces. I’m going to rip him limb from limb._

He stared at Felix blankly and let the words go around and around inside him.

“When I dragged him in here, kicking and screaming, you should have heard it. It was __pathetic._ Wash—!”_ Felix mimicked, eerily close to perfectly matching Simmons’ frightened tone. _“Don’t leave me, Wash!_ You know, I—”

He cut off abruptly, with a choking noise, because Washington had closed the distance between them and backed him up against the wall. It was a mistake, he knew, a __bad__ one; could see it in Felix’s slow smile.

“Come on, Wash,” he said, darkly. “Don’t you want to know __why?”__

 _No_ , he told himself. _No more._

He wasn’t going to play Felix’s games any longer. If there __was__ an answer for why this had been done, why everything between them could have been so perfectly constructed, a lie in its entirety, inescapable and brutal and damning—

He didn’t want to know it.

“Don’t you?” Felix asked him again, his voice at a polar opposite, now bright and wondering, and Wash wondered how he could have missed how _dangerous_  it was before. “Come on, the blank mask thing is getting old. I worked hard for this. Don’t tell me I brought you here for nothing — or, heaven forbid, kill your little friend for —”

This time, when Wash’s fist flew at his face, Felix was ready. He ducked to the side and Wash’s hand collided with the wall, and he lowered it numbly, ignorant to the pain that radiated down his wrist. He was drawn inwards, despite Felix’s proximity to him, because he wasn’t sure whether Felix had just given something away.

Had Wash been brought here? Hadn’t he made his own way to the gym, on his own terms? Or had he been driven, driven by an anger that Felix had created, had planted to let seed and shape Wash’s course of action?

Of course. Felix had been waiting.

With determination dredged up from the black abyss growing inside of him, he locked it all away. The betrayal, the hurt, the confusion, the desperation—

The _fear—_

Down, he pushed it, until it was in the abyss, too.

“Are you even listening?” Felix’s voice was golden, half-serious but edged with a quiet hint of steel. “What, do I have to kill someone _else_ to get a response out of you?”

He obviously wasn’t finished. Something else, something more was happening, and Washington was right in the middle of it.

He thought desperately to what he knew he still had. For starters, Felix didn’t know Simmons was alive. Whatever plan he’d crafted, he hadn’t included that, and it gave Wash a split second of hope even if he wasn’t sure that it mattered. He had still realised, and he had still come here, just as Felix had intended. He supposed that to Felix, it didn’t matter whether Simmons lived or died. He’d played his part, and lived out his usefulness.

Felix kept on. “Yeah, that one was too easy. It’s too late now, for the record. I know you have all that anger, burning away in there. I bet you’re wondering what to do with it. Should you, I don’t know, try to kill me? Face the wrath of Locus, and every boy in this room? Risk all your friends? Risk… Tucker?”

Wash froze, and Felix didn’t miss it. He opened his mouth, a dark smile pulling his lips back, but Wash didn’t give him the chance to speak. He _couldn’t,_ because it would just give Felix more power.

“What do you want?”

The question was a good one, simply because Felix hadn’t answered it before, and he didn’t expect an answer even now. He was buying time, finding information, and that was what he faced on a conscious level. Beyond that, he barely even realised that he was burning to know, because Felix had told somewhat already told him, but Wash knew enough now to know that it wasn’t all there was.

That there was more, because he didn’t have a _reason,_ aside from that he knew, without doubt, he deserved this.

For betraying Tucker, for lying, abandoning his friends—

He’d cut himself off, so neatly, and if it wasn’t for their loyalty he’d still be alone. When he thought about it, he knew that they’d paid the price for that, too. Simmons certainly had.

But for _what?_

There was something else, something missing—

“Don’t you get it, yet?” Felix snapped, and the steel from before was stronger now, sharpening his words into blows. “Are you that _stupid?_ This is a fucking game, Wash, and you’ve lost it. I thought more of you, I’ll admit that. Thought it might actually be something, a challenge. Of course, you disappointed there, too.”

It sounded short, forged in fire, but Wash could read into it, into the _something missing._ Felix’s question was carefully crafted, just like his answer, just like the whole thing was. He could see even now the links Felix had been making through his speech, links that Wash had only just realised. A build up to an ending that he never wanted to see.

He had, after all, been brought here.

Wash stepped back and became aware of a lull in the background, a sudden drop in the pretense that everyone here wasn’t involved and invested in what was going on. It made sense, and he had expected it, but it still was what it was: very bad news for him.

He nodded, once, then burst into action.

Felix flinched back, as if he expected the flurry of movement to be directed towards him. It was the tiniest giveaway, an indication of how he'd underestimated Wash, before he was snapping forward with a snarl and a shout towards the door. Because Wash was running, of course he was, the most valuable lesson he’d ever been taught was that sometimes he could run.

He’d broken through the haze of fear, betrayal and uncertainty to _move,_ not forward but back, towards the double doors and the boys who’d fallen in behind him, blocking his way.

“Nice try!” Felix called, but the tone to his voice had fallen away and left it flat, and black, and cold.

Wash didn’t pause. He flew forward and broke the nose of the first boy with a loud _crack,_ watched brown eyes widen and disbelief pulse out at him in the seconds it took for him to shove him aside. There were more to his side, but they didn’t lunge towards him. Instead they stayed, in a rough formation, blocking the only exit.

Felix sighed, but it was loud, dramatic, intended from him to hear. “We knew you’d go for the obvious. Unfortunately for you, you’ve just made a lot of enemies. Spilling blood so soon, Wash?”

_Don’t say my name._

“I’ll give you points for piecing it together, though. I thought I’d have to spell that out for you, too. Have you figured it out yet? What I want?”

The bad feelings crept their way out of the abyss and wrapped around him. He turned back and his eyes finally met with Felix’s again. They stared into each other, picking each other apart. Felix leant back first, having found what he wanted, but Wash continued to stare at him — because the longer he stared, the more certain he became, until he was filled with such conviction that he took a step forward.

Then another, and another, until he was staring a burning stare into Felix’s soul.

And Felix _smiled._

The figures behind him closed in rapidly, shortened the distance until he should have turned, should have moved to defend himself, but—

Something was overwhelming him, silent and unfamiliar and deadly, creeping down his spine and through his veins until he was so full with it he felt like he couldn’t move. It took a moment for him to place it, to recognise it from when he had gotten his first taste before.

 _Hatred._ Pouring from a hole that had been torn agonisingly open within him; the raw, open wound of betrayal.

He was being cornered rapidly, a thick sense of excitement permeating the air. He wondered, briefly, whether anyone other than he and Felix understood what was happening here, if they truly comprehended the situation as it unfolded before him. Someone behind him laughed, followed by a muttering of _“too easy,”_ and Wash knew that they didn’t.

As they followed behind him, shadowing his every move as he was shepherded into the room behind the white door, it was just another day to them. They moved together in unison, an act practiced a thousand times, and forced him into the centre of the room.

He backed away, ducked to the side to avoid being cornered, felt the world thump around him. He lost sight of Felix as bodies — too many for him to take on at once, he knew — fell into place around him, taking the shape of a ring so quickly and with such familiarity it seemed as if it was their purpose.

There was a pause, thunderous and filled with racing hearts, until a boy stepped in front of him. Something inside of Wash twisted, threatened to draw a pained cry. He knew what he was supposed to do here. He knew how to raise his fists, and position his body so that he could _react,_ but he wasn’t moving. He remained physically unresponsive to the stilted orders of his mind.

He was still caught several moments behind, in the _what was he doing here, the how could he get out?_ He knew, even as he thought it, that any window for escape he could have had was long slammed shut, and no curtains rustled in the breeze.

That thought fled from his mind, and the boy in front of him started to move. He was taller, with longer arms, so he kept his distance until he could duck in and throw a punch, but he was moving nonetheless, circulating carefully. Wash was watching him closely, analysing him, so he dodged the punch with ease, but it came from a reflex.

There was no conscious thought, no decision that could leave him responding with his own fists, to raise them against the boy attacking him despite everything he’d ever learned.

He dodged another punch, then a widely swung elbow, and still he didn’t fight back. There was a numbness growing inside of him again, blanketing the hatred that would sooner burn him up from the inside out so that he could afford to think. He moved aside, out of the way of another quick attack, didn’t question why he didn’t close the distance and knock the boy to the ground.

It would have been easy, but it wouldn’t have been right. The numbness came with crawling whispers — because these weren’t the people he should have been fighting against, they weren’t who his anger was directed to. They weren’t the ones who had betrayed him, manipulated him, lied to him, who would stab him in the back if given the chance.

Who already _had,_ he thought, because the phantom ache from the half scar above his kidney felt fresh.

A follow up knee caught him in the side, but barely, and he regained his balance easily, unharmed.  He was slower than he would have liked, held back by whatever it was within him that hadn’t quite caught up yet, that hadn’t registered that these boys were all still threats even if they were nothing compared to Felix.

 _They’re still attacking you,_ part of him whispered. _They hunted you down and they cornered you, and now you’re letting them win._

He kept, he realised, seeking out Felix. Through the brief gaps in the shifting crowd, there was always a flash, a glimpse, something he tracked and followed even as he was forced to move. Felix wasn’t _hiding,_ but—

In a way, he was. Safely behind a small throng of bodies, letting the bloodfuelled violence protect him from facing the consequences of what he’d so skillfully orchestrated.

Another fist was thrown towards him, this time more forceful, and Wash ducked backwards again. He was faster here, and he knew it, could keep up his familiar dance until something gave, as long as it wasn’t him. He twisted, ducked behind, __didn’t__ use the opportunity to kick his opponent in the back and send him flying to the floor.

There was a cautious balance in the air, shaped by his careful reactions. An odd, artificial limbo, keeping him safe. As long as he didn’t strike, there was nothing unleashed, just a thickening blanket of uncertainty that could possibly buy him enough time.

The boy spun unsteadily, lashed out with a kick that was simple to sidestep, and followed with another elbow aimed towards his face. Again, Wash spun out of reach, and this time when he sought out Felix’s eyes, he was met with impatience. He’d only seen for a split second, but it had been enough, the impatience and dissatisfaction burning into him like a branding mark — identifying Felix.

He wanted Wash to fight. He wanted him to fight, and that mattered because he wanted him to fight whether he would win or lose. Eventually, in the end, Wash would fall. Was that what Felix was waiting for?

Surely Felix knew. He knew he wouldn’t go down without a fight, without giving as good as he got and then some, and he would give it _hard._ Did the boys in front of him know this? Were they aware what they’d signed up for, when they’d followed blindly to box him in and trap him here?

Inside his unresponsive brain, in amongst the crawling whispers of the numbness, a thought rattled. It shook and trembled with something he’d heard many times long ago, a verse from an old book that had been whispered endlessly around the darkness of the cells before a fight, when someone lay dying from injuries, when sanity threatened to crack from all the blood that had been spilled.

_For we are not fighting against flesh and blood enemies, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this world's darkness, and against the evil—_

He ducked away from another punch, slipped beneath a reaching hand, and wondered dimly how this was supposed to end. If he didn’t fight, he wasn’t giving in, and it was buying him enough time to think, to try and craft a plan to get out. He was eyeing the white door and the figures in front of it when it opened. Someone entered, followed by something Wash didn’t get to see. His gaze was torn away, pulled back to the boy in front of him as he charged, and Wash was forced to twist his wrist backwards to loosen the grip he’d secured on his shirt as he sidestepped, and left his leg extended outwards to send the boy stumbling to the ground.

Jeers rang out around him, familiar, telling Wash he was doing it right. It was loud, echoing in his brain, around and around with the rattling thought, the—

Felix’s gleeful voice cut through all the noise to slice right through him.

“Oh, _wonderful._ Welcome, _Tucker!”_

Wash froze. In the middle of pulling out of range, before he was safely out of distance of the boy climbing furiously to his feet, he froze. Every fibre of his being locked up in a sudden, terrified denial.

_No._

But when he forced his eyes to raise, to see past the crowding bodies pressing in on him, there, staring back at him with the same wild eyed fearful disbelief, was Tucker.

 _“No,”_ Wash saw him mouth, at the same time as—

_“Tucker!”_

It tore itself out of him in a shout, ripping itself from his throat, shaking. The world was suddenly spinning around him, _he should have expected it, should have seen it coming,_ and he blinked as he stared at the cement inches from his face.

 _ _What—__ he wondered, dumbly, before he realised he’d been knocked to the ground. Nobody else had stopped when he had, no one had even hesitated. No one seemed to care that Tucker wasn’t supposed to be here, that he wasn’t meant to be caught up in this, that he didn’t deserve it.

 _He’s not supposed to be here,_ he tried to say. _Stop, stop everything. He shouldn’t be here. Let him go._

He rose to his feet unsteadily, uncertain. Sought out Tucker over their heads, found him being pulled back, saw a knife glint promisingly in Felix’s hands before he couldn’t see anymore. He was pushed back and forced to face the boy in front of him, who didn’t care that it wasn’t supposed to be happening like this.

Felix wouldn’t let him go, Wash knew. A trump card had been pulled, the ace played. Whether planned or not, whether Tucker had followed him or was taken, he was here, at Felix’s mercy. Yet aside from Wash, nobody paid attention to him.

 _He_ was still the prize in the center of the ring, with so few aware that everything bordered on Tucker, metres away, the knife to his neck.

_For we are not fighting against flesh and blood—_

* * *

Wash was on his feet now, but before he could steady himself two hands secured themselves in his shirt and yanked him backwards, and the first boy ran at him. He tried to twist to free himself, but he didn’t have a chance, not enough space and time to respond to the punch that caught him in the side of the head.

His head snapped sideways and the boy grinned. It hit him almost exactly where he’d been taken by surprise before, and this time, it did hurt. It hurt because beyond it he could see Tucker’s frightened eyes, his mouth shaping around Wash’s name; he could see Felix, so close to him, smiling. It was as sharp and pointed and deadly as the blade he held to Tucker’s neck. The earth seemed to crack apart underneath him, opening into a black, yawning chasm, and Wash had the strangest sensation as if he was falling, falling—

He hit the ground with a bang as Felix lifted the knife to the side of Tucker’s cheek. He heard him, somehow, over the noise around him, over the rush of blood in his ears—

“This should give you a little more incentive. Better make it good, Wash. If you don’t? He’ll suffer.”

There was a promise in his words, something chilling and awful and so fucking _cold_ it filled Wash’s bones with ice. Felix was watching him, always watching, soaking it up and breathing it in as he carved the knife down the side of Tucker’s face.

The blade opened up Tucker’s skin, down his cheek and towards his mouth, and Wash could see him yelling, watched his face scrunch up in pain as he shouted and struggled, but all of a sudden Washington couldn’t hear a thing.

His heartbeat thumped and he felt it with every ounce of his being. Once, twice, as the blood welled up and began pouring down Tucker’s face. His vision blackened on his right side temporarily and he knew that he’d been hit again, a ringed fist leaving its mark on his cheek, but he felt no pain.

Three times, four.

Only a small, warm trickle of blood as it began to seep from the small laceration. He was bleeding, but so was Tucker.

 _Five._ Five heartbeats. That’s all it took from the moment Felix laid his hands on Tucker for Wash to break.

 _He’ll suffer,_ he thought wildly, and it began.

He snapped his elbow forward into the throat of the boy who’d attacked him, so quickly and with so much force he felt something give. The boy’s head snapped back and he fell backwards, retching, his hands to his throat. Wash looked at the finger that held the ring that had cut the side of his head and he grabbed it, quickly, and snapped his hand backwards.

The boy tried to scream, and choked instead. Wash tried to meet Tucker’s eyes, and instead met Felix’s.

A gap opened up in the small crowd that Wash lunged for as the boy was pulled quickly away, but there was someone at his back, pulling at his shirt, holding him back long enough for the gap to close. He spun furiously to meet his new attacker. It was someone he recognised, could almost put a name to through his haze of red —  _Jin_ — but he didn’t care.

He sunk his fist into Jin’s nose, sidestepped the elbow thrown towards him, and drew his knee up into his groin to knock him to the floor. There was no time wasted. He could feel Felix’s eyes on him as he climbed on top and lifted his head back by his hair, far enough that a strangled cry pulled itself from Jin’s taut throat, and then slammed his face into the ground once, twice.

Again, and again, and again, until Jin had stopped struggling beneath him.

The air was knocked from him as Wash was tackled to the ground. He felt his neck crack painfully sideways, heard someone yell his name—

_—Wash, no!—_

_Tucker, don’t, don’t you know you’ll suffer?_

—and Tucker’s voice echoed in his ears as he got to his feet.

He climbed up faster than the boy who’d knocked him down and went to kick him, tried to sink his foot into somewhere soft, but yet again someone had grabbed a hold of his shirt and he was being pulled backwards. Another hand smacked him in the side of the face and his vision swum but he could see, and that was enough, enough for him to throw himself forward with his entire body weight, pulling the boy with him for a second before he kicked back and abruptly launched himself backwards.

It worked, and the boy holding him let go to break his fall. Wash spun, landed on his hands and knees and was on his feet again immediately. He turned to the boy who had hit him and he swung, fist tight, to land a punch directly in his eye. The boy stumbled back and landed on his knees, hands to his streaming eye, and that was when Wash kicked him in the side of the head.

He fell to the ground, and still there were more.

There were more, because there were so many here, and he’d never get through them all to get to Tucker. He was still struggling in Felix’s arms, and Wash wanted to shout to him, tell him he _knew_ what to do here, they’d _practiced_ this, but he had a feeling that just having Felix’s arms around him would render Tucker helpless in terror.

It made _him_  weak, just knowing Tucker was in Felix’s grasp.

“Come on!” he heard himself shout, realised over the roar of his blood in his ears that that was _his_ voice, tearing itself from his throat in a raw, bloodied shout. “Come on, Felix! Bring him here! _Come here!”_

There was no movement outside the wall of bodies, and despite the disappointment that brought nausea rising sickeningly up his esophagus, he wasn’t surprised. That wasn’t how Felix worked, to put himself in danger’s way, even if—

He was grabbed from behind, but he didn’t fight it. Felix was parting the crowd like water, moving smoothly through it with Tucker in front of him like a shield. He stopped well out of Wash’s reach, but close enough that Wash could see every heart stopping detail.

Tucker was shaking. His hands were pulling at the arm Felix had around his neck, but with no real force, and Wash could see immediately why. Beneath the curve of where his jawline met his ear, Felix’s other hand held the pointed edge of his knife very close to Tucker’s skin. There were small rivulets of blood where he’d nicked him several times, but that was nothing.

Nothing, compared to the gaping wound Felix had carved into the side of Tucker’s face. Blood ran freely from it, and Wash knew how dangerous that was. From the look Felix cast his way, he knew it too, showed it in the tight pull of his smile.

Wash would have described it as _satisfied,_ but… he doubted if Felix would ever truly be satisfied.

Felix cocked his head at him as if he could read his thoughts. “Is this what you wanted to see?”

Tucker had frozen, his eyes fixated on Wash’s. There was something there that Wash couldn’t read, something that he’d never seen before, something somewhere between a plea and a refusal, fear and wide-eyed disbelief; hope, and hopelessness.

All Tucker could see was Wash at Felix’s mercy, in everything he’d feared.

“Let him go,” Wash said, and his voice came out hoarse and cracked and broken.

There was a murmur in the crowd behind him, and Felix fixed whoever it was with his sharp, narrowed eyes. “But Wash,” he said, as if he were confused, “you wanted this! You told me you could take every fighter here on, and then some. But you just wouldn’t do it, so I’m giving you a little… incentive.”

“He’s lying,” Tucker croaked out, and Wash could see how much it would have pained him to speak. The cut on the side of his face gaped open, shaping with the words as they pulled the muscles in his cheeks, and Wash had seen a thousand worse injuries but he’d never seen them on Tucker.

_“Let him go.”_

Felix smiled his smile and dug his knife in a little sharper. “I don’t think so.”

Wash’s world trembled around him as he realised Felix could very easily kill Tucker. Before Wash could stop him, before Tucker could gain control and free himself, before the uncertain murmurs behind him had a chance to grow into protests. He’d wanted Felix to come so that he could get Tucker away from him, but now all he could do was watch as the realisation sunk in that even though he was right in front of him, he couldn’t help him.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” Felix lifted his hand to smear the blood on Tucker’s face. An invitation. Wash could agree or fight it.

“I didn’t want this.”

Felix shook his head. Tightened the arm he had around Tucker’s neck. “You wanted to fight every boy here.”

“No. I didn’t.”

 _“You_ said they were all weak, useless. You didn’t think they’d stand a chance against you.”

“That’s not true.” But Felix had reached the end of his patience, and when he twisted the knife further into Tucker’s neck Wash knew he was running out of time.

“Really?”

He grit his teeth and gave his warning, his final chance. “I didn’t want this.”

Before either of them could reach a decision, one was made for them. A hand reached out and struck Wash from behind, landing itself in his shoulder blade and sending him stumbling forward. He regained his balance and spun to defend from the follow up, and Felix used the opportunity to back away, convinced he’d made his point, done his damage. He backed up through the crowd with Tucker in tow.

Wash tried to follow, tried to swing around to use the boy who’d struck him as a shield to break through where Felix and Tucker had disappeared, but he didn’t have the strength. Still, he struggled, because he could hear Tucker yelling something, heard Felix’s name wrapped in a furious haze of hatred, and knew he needed to help him.

Needed to protect Tucker, except he _couldn’t,_ because someone grabbed at his extended arm and yanked him to the ground. A body piled on top of him and knocked his head into the floor and everything cut off to be replaced by a ringing that he knew was only in his ears.

It meant he could no longer hear Tucker, and fear joined anew the endless rush of emotions flowing through him. It was his strength that allowed him to get his hands underneath his body and push up and to the side, rolling the weight on him off, but it was his speed that made him able to climb up quickly enough to retaliate.

“I didn’t want this,” he said, and it wasn’t a warning anymore. It was an apology.

He pulled his leg back and kicked the boy beneath him straight in the teeth, felt them give way beneath his shoes. Still, he lifted his foot again and stamped down again, _hard,_ because he’d almost been able to reach Tucker and now he couldn’t hear him, couldn’t know if he was calling Wash’s name, if he was _suffering._

His shoulder ached and his head pounded fiercely and he fought on.

Someone grabbed at his shirt again but finally, it gave way. Wash didn’t pause, simply spun with the tear and let the remnants of his shirt fall to the ground. He swung up, hard, and planted his fist in the chin of the boy who had grabbed him, and watched as he quickly followed the path downwards to join Wash’s shirt on the floor.

There was the first hesitation that Wash had seen. He paused with it, simply because nobody else had stepped forward to volunteer themselves. There was a second, two, that passed by as the boys around him caught their first glimpses of his scarred body. What he’d lived through.

One second passed, then another, and finally someone stepped forward and—

The sirens started.

They tore through the air and shook the world, long and deep and deafening. He stumbled to his knees before he was aware of it, the force of the noise threatening to bring everything crashing down around them. 

_Hadn’t he just heard these sirens call, hadn’t Simmons just been bleeding out on the floor—_

There was a long, long second as Wash fell to his knees where time seemed to pause, separate from the sirens that deafened the world, and nobody moved. No more actions were made, no thoughts, nothing. Just a frozen piece of time in the middle of the ground-shattering, world ending noise.

Then, above them, it started to rain.

 _No,_  Wash thought, as the first drops hit him. _Not rain._ He flinched, tore his gaze upwards, and through the drops that fell into his eyes he saw a pattern, a space from where the water shot out. Dozens of them, spitting water out rapidly, inaudible beneath the sirens as the sprinklers showered water down onto the upturned faces of the boys beneath it.

Where the red emergency lights had replaced the dim lighting from before, it looked like it was raining blood.

Then everyone was moving, and Wash was caught in the middle of a flurry of action as they began running for the exit. They still seemed to move as one, but it stemmed from something else this time, something Wash didn’t recognise.

A practiced escape, following an unseen route as the bodies, even the injured, emptied from the room.

He had no way to know that deep in the detention centre, a chubby, dark skinned hand had reached out, and the fire alarm had been pulled. Instead the sirens rang around and around in his skull, furrowing into his brain, rendering him frozen, unable to move, unable to reach—

_Tucker._

Although the sirens threatened to shake him apart at the seams, he turned, slowly, to where he could see Tucker through the rapidly disappearing crowd. Saw his bleeding face, his wild eyes, his fear. Then Wash’s eyes lifted, bit by bit, to where Felix stood at his side.

They both seemed to move at once.

Tucker tried to pull back, to free himself from Felix’s grasp like Wash had shown him, but Felix wasn’t holding onto him anymore. He’d met Wash’s gaze through the chaos and moved, quickly, to raise his fist, and then snap it into Tucker's jaw and send him hurtling to the ground.

He’d knocked Tucker unconscious and now Felix stood, in the blood red light and the pouring water, at Wash’s mercy.


	37. shattered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the end notes for TW and further notes, but beware heavy spoilers.
> 
> Just a reminder I won't be updating for 3 weeks, until I'm back from Australia. Much love, and I hope you all will stay with me. Thank you <3
> 
> Until then - find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

For everything that Felix had done, the things that Washington knew about and the things he was still realising, for the people who had been hurt—

For _Simmons,_ who had been sliced open from elbow to wrist, who’d screamed Wash’s name, who’d sufferedin a way that Wash so badly wanted to protect Tucker from; who’d been through more than any of them knew, and hadn’t even been able to confide in the one person in the world he always held onto. Who’d been _alone._

For Tucker. For what Wash had done to him, what he had been led into doing. The lies, the avoidance, the secrets. How he’d kept it from him time and time again, driving them apart and filling the void with the blackness Felix brought. How he’d been hurt now, _again,_ scarred irreparably in a long line down his face that Wash knew would never completely fade.

For the rest of them, Grif and Sarge and Donut and Caboose and how the ripple effect of love and unconditional _togetherness_ had brought waves of pain to them, wave after wave until they were sinking. Until it would bring them down, under the surface. Without each other, did they know how to swim?

And for everything that Felix had done to _him._ How he’d fooled him, so easily. How neatly he’d driven Wash away and nearly cut him off completely from the only people in the universe who cared about him, and Wash hadn’t even realised it. How he’d nearly torn him apart from the inside out and left him with _nothing._

— Washington had no mercy.

Now it was down to them.

Felix stood, facing him. His eyes were narrowed and his body held tense, ready. He’d realised the position he was in, with Wash standing between him and the door, and with each drop that fell, Wash became acutely aware that his next decision relied totally on one thing.

The seconds passed. Felix’s lips pulled into a snarl and he moved forward, testing him, but still Wash stayed, and still Tucker didn’t stir.

 _How long,_ he wondered. _Ten seconds? Had it been ten seconds? Twenty?_

Tucker should be moving by now. The longer he didn’t stir, the worse it was, and Wash kept waiting for his unmoving form to shift, just a little, enough to show he was regaining consciousness and he wasn’t damaged. Not seriously.

Felix grew fed up with waiting, and took another step towards him.

“Move,” he said, his lips shaping around it wordlessly, but Wash had heard that voice below the sirens before and knew what it said. Remembered that the first time there’d been sirens, he’d been at Felix’s side, too.

That was how it had begun, and that was how it would end.

He looked one last time at Tucker’s still form and lunged. At the same moment, Felix threw himself forward, and they collided in the middle. No time for show fighting, no pretty moves or elongated dances to keep the watching eyes happy. It was just him, and Felix, and the pounding, unrelenting desire to kill him _ _.__

He got the upper hand and knocked him to the ground as the sirens cut off. They were replaced immediately by the second set, eerie and surreal in their echoes beneath the splashing and the constant falling water that threatened to blind him as he wrapped his hands around Felix’s throat and bore down on him.

 _“He’ll suffer,”_ he repeated, uttered so low that it should have been inaudible over the sirens. But Wash’s words had been designed for Felix, a whispered promise through teeth bared against his throat, and he heard them.

Felix’s hand moved away from where they’d automatically began trying to tug Wash’s hands away, a knee jerk survival instinct that even he had to fight down, and crept towards Wash’s eyes. Before Wash could pull away, a thumb pressed into his left eye socket. Bursts of light and agony shot through him and he reeled backwards.

Felix followed his retreat, shadowed him as he backed away. He forced himself to stop, to throw himself forward again even half blind, but this time Felix was anticipating him and moved with him, used his momentum to bring them both to the ground.

Felix landed on top of him, twisting to turn Wash so that he was facedown. The air was forced out of him in a heartslamming __thud,__ and then he was struggling, writhing and bucking to knock Felix off him and get to his feet. Felix partially released him, but Wash had no chance to use that before Felix’s arm crept around his throat.

Despite the agony in his left eye — it was still intact, he could tell that much though he could see nothing out of it — he could tell what Felix was planning, and he shot his own arm up to act as a barrier in front of his throat. He wasn’t quite quick enough, and they met in the middle.

They struggled like that for several seconds, and Felix began to gain the upper hand.

“He already has,” he hissed suddenly, and it took Wash a few seconds to understand that he was responding, giving an answer to something that had never meant to be a question. It took a split second more for it to register with him, and then fury followed hotly on the heels of recognition and he bucked.

“Yeah,” Felix continued, and he was on Wash’s back, bearing down with a surprising amount of strength. “I fucked him, you know. Had him a little like this, actually.”

Wash didn’t think he could have fought any harder, but his words blew a maelstrom of sheer hotblooded fury through him, and he managed to throw Felix’s arm off long enough to duck away and shoot back towards him. This time he knocked him to the ground completely, pinned him between his legs, and his hands were back around his throat before he could say a single word about _that._

When Felix’s hands came searching for his eyes he bit at them, and pulled far enough back that he was safely out of reach. His eye was still streaming, but it was impossible to tell the extent of the damage done with the water pounding down on them.

Felix stopped trying for his eyes and instead slid down his slippery skin, unable to gain a purchase. Wash didn’t blink. He was ready, prepared to knock away any attempts Felix would make on him. He knew he was safe from being blinded, and he’d bought enough time to successfully overcome any other attempts Felix could make before he weakened, the life choking out of him—

Or so he’d thought. A split second passed, and then Wash launched himself backwards.

He flew through the air and landed hard on the wet ground beneath him, on his feet a moment later. He backed away, wary. He’d been wrong. Felix’s movements had registered not as fearful and desperate, the death claws of a dying man, but instead as deliberate; his hands had slid downwards against Wash’s skin, in a movement familiar and foreign all at once, until they’d reached what Felix had been searching for.

And Wash had jumped back, just in time, as Felix pulled the knife from his pants and thrust it at him. In the light the steel glinted, promising. Wash calculated his movements as Felix got to his feet, knew the bad turn it had just taken, and before a second had passed Felix came at him again.

They were on entirely different terms, now.

Wash hadn’t known what to expect, but he wasn’t surprised. Felix’s grip on the blade was certain, his movements sure, and every time Wash blinked the water out of his eyes Felix was _there,_  moving towards him quickly, striking out with a knowing efficiency that told Wash that the blade was a part of him.

His heart thumped painfully, and in front of Tucker’s drenched, motionless form, he fell into a dance that was familiar, but never any less terrifying.

The ground was flat and slippery beneath him, and any misstep would be deadly — tried to _prove_ deadly as Felix closed the space between them repeatedly. Wash’s memories wrapped themselves around him like a comforting blanket, not thick or impenetrable but _enough,_ enough to keep him moving and on his feet and alive.

He thought of CT, the girl who’d shown him what it meant to be good with a knife. Whose actions he’d mimicked and practiced time and time again until they were second nature to him, until he handled a blade with deadly precision, just as Felix did — and who’d shown him how to survive, when he was the one on the other end of it.

The girl who’d told him there was something more, that what they suffered through was bigger than them —  _“There’s more like us,”_ she’d promised, as she’d knelt over his broken and bloodied form. And then she’d left him on the floor, confused and uncertain but alive.

Something to live for, before he’d been able to hold it in his hands.

He was thrown back into reality as Felix’s blade gouged into the skin just above his ribs. He pulled away in time to avoid anything further, but Felix continued to dart in and out, searching for openings, for weak spots, and Wash knew it was only a matter of time until he closed in on one. He couldn’t be lucky forever, because skill only played a certain part in this, and Wash was _tired._

He had endurance, but he was injured now, worn out from fighting, and he was slower. He could feel the split seconds between what he’d had and what he was now — slower, less accurate, the small differences that could and would mean life or death.

And still, Felix came at him, again and again.

The cuts grew quickly on his hands and arms, his last second defenses when he didn’t dodge well enough, didn’t pull far enough away. His leg was dragging, his head spinning and he could only see blurry grey out of his left eye. He was one wrong move away from dying at Felix’s hands.

_Would he really kill him, here like this?_

Felix lunged at him, thrust his knife at his throat, and Wash fell back numbly. He would, Wash _knew_ he would, and it was only fair. Wash would kill him, too. Maybe that was whyFelix was fighting like this, because he’d sensed the chord in Washington that had snapped with Tucker falling to the floor, the final move that had left him crumbling. He’d already known Wash wanted him finished, so what more was another little jibe about Tucker?

 _He fucked him,_ Wash thought, almost evenly. It didn’t matter if it were true or not, although there was an unyielding certainty within him that promised Felix _had;_ what mattered was that he’d said it. Wash had been built up to be torn down, and Felix wouldn’t stop even now.

Wash ducked under another quick jab outwards, but he was slower. His reserves were dwindling, and the more they fought the more he realised that Felix was a perfect match for him. As fast if he was if not faster, held his blade with surety and all his strikes perfectly timed and deadly. How _Wash_ would do it, if he had the knife in his hands.

But he didn’t, he was on the receiving end, his blocks self sacrificing without the time to move completely back, or duck out of the way and try and get behind him. The growing number of cuts were painful, distracting, and he had several bad gouges on his arms that had started bleeding and would take a long time to stop.

Draining him, and Felix knew it. Wash was increasingly wary of the way Felix moved, swift and certain and surefooted on the slippery floor, as if closing in on his weakening prey.

Because he _was._

A fast stab at his neck had him pulling away, and Felix’s knife came with him, buried in the arm he’d lifted to defend himself. Felix yanked it out, tearing through the muscle of Wash’s arm with a sickening noise, and a white hot wave of agony immediately washed through him. His knees threatened to fail underneath him and he yelled, a short shout of pain, as the heat in his arm reached an unbearable point and tears mixed with the water running into his good eye.

He could see Felix’s blurry figure closing in, and instead of dropping to his knees like his body so badly wanted to, he pushed himself forward and cracked his forehead into Felix’s nose. He felt hot blood spurt out and land on his face before it too mixed with the water, and he half pulled, half fell backwards in time to avoid the slash Felix gave.

He knew it was more of an instinctive reaction to get him away than any attempt to kill, but it was something. Wash had hurt him, broken his nose, and despite that one arm was now completely useless and the pain was so unbearable he couldn’t quite think straight, he felt a small thrill of victory as the sirens faded out and their gazes met.

Wash’s grey steel flashed determination at Felix’s tight golden eyes, and even as the water flattened his hair to his head and dripped water into his eyes, Wash could see him shaking.

This time, _he_ was angry. On the defense, forced to protect himself, a perfect plan that had gone wrong. He couldn’t reap the rewards of what he’d created, instead had to face off against it, had to fight to survive. He’d had the advantage in every way, but still, Wash was facing him now.

Still, Wash had _hurt_ him.

The sirens started back up again and so did they. Wash ducked to the side, swept a kick out that connected with Felix’s ankle and sent him stumbling. He moved forward, tried to keep in Felix’s space to stop him from regaining his balance, hoping he would slip, but a quick stab aimed at his chest had him falling back.

He grit his teeth against the overwhelming pain of his injuries, the relentless agony of his arm, and tried again. He spun himself to land a kick in Felix’s side, nearly slipped, kept his balance at the last second. It connected heavier than he’d hoped and Felix was forced backwards, one hand automatically going to the impacted area before he was back again, slicing his knife out a second too late in an attempt to rake it down Wash’s leg.

This time Wash was faster, because Felix’s foot slid beneath him and threatened to make him fall, and the second it took for him to steady himself was enough for Wash to dart forwards, using his forearm to knock Felix’s knife hand away and get in close. He lifted his elbow and crunched it into Felix’s nose again. More blood poured out and Felix gasped against him.

Wash felt rather than saw his arm try to swing back and bury the knife in his back, knew with certainty that it was flying towards him. He anticipated it, turned and reached behind to close his hand around Felix’s.

It was quick — he yanked Felix’s hand backwards, wrenching the knife away, and he felt his bones break beneath his fingers.

Felix’s cry was lost in the peak of the sirens, but Wash’s wasn’t, because Felix had taken hold of his arm with his uninjured hand and dug his fingers into the stab wound, clawing into it, separating his skin and muscle as he tore it open.

Wash fell back, landed heavily on his hands and knees, and the world threatened to black out around him as agony swept through him and forced every thought from his mind. He was kicked sideways, and his head snapped to the side with a sickening wave of pain. His remaining vision disappeared, but when he opened his eyes again to the pulsating world around him, he was still holding the knife in his working hand.

Felix, however, wasn’t defenseless. He no longer had the weapon but he had his strength, his speed. Wash knew this, and as he got to his feet, he knew he had to move quickly; every second, more blood drained out of him, the pain demanded more attention, and he grew weaker.

He tried to straighten, but his ribs sent a flame of heat through him, protesting. Telling him he was pushing it, was asking a lot, but the moment that he determined he could rely on them to lean forward and launch himself, he was flying forward, bringing the knife down into Felix’s shoulder.

He wasn’t fast enough.

The pain in his bleeding arm was distracting, pulling his focus, and he’d hesitated a split second too long. Felix pulled back, and the blade parted the skin over his chest instead. While Wash tried to balance and compensate for the lack of impact, Felix reached a hand forward and secured it in his hair, grabbing a fistful and using it to yank him forwards.

As the pain prickled through his scalp and swept down his spine, Wash tried to resist, tried to stop himself from being pulled down to his knees. He failed, and passed the tipping point both in balance and in battle.

As he fell he struck outwards, swung with the hand that tightly grasped the knife. It glanced off of Felix’s hipbone and drew out a yell of pain, but it wasn’t enough. Wash landed face down and the air flew out of him, but Felix’s hand was no longer tearing his hair out of his scalp. There was a moment of nothing, no thought, no noise, as his nose crunched into the ground beneath him and he was blinded by the pain, the water, the dark.

He had to use that moment. He knew, the instinct within him that had pulled him through fight after fight, that had kept him going long past a point of what he knew he could — it screamed and whispered all at once, an order and a passing thought, the knowledge that he had to keep moving, that he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop—

Desperately, he got his hands beneath him and shot upright, the knife flying up to find a home in Felix’s stomach. There, he’d kick his knees out and knock him to the floor and slit his neck, and—

Felix was faster.

Wash had been the fastest. Not once, he thought, as Felix swept his hands out from under him, but hundreds of times over. When he wasn’t the fastest he was the smartest, and when he wasn’t the smartest he was the strongest, and as he landed on the ground and Felix brought his foot onto the back of his elbow he was none of those things. His bones shattered beneath Felix’s weight and what he was, well—

He was screaming.

Then Felix yanked the knife out of his limp hand and buried it somewhere inside of him and it all cut off with a gurgle. He didn’t quite _feel_ it, didn’t register the pain as it tightened up every nerve ending in his body, but he knew. From the sudden numbness spreading through his back, he knew.

The sirens rang around and around before he realised that this time, they were in his head. He tried to get up but the pain stopped him, simply cut him short, and he collapsed before he’d even began to rise. His vision swum and black crept in around the edges as Felix climbed on top of him and wrapped a hand in his hair again, yanked his head back.

Despite the pain, despite that it was so overwhelming that he couldn’t think through it, couldn’t move, he still felt the cold point of steel against his neck with perfect clarity.

_I’m so sorry, Tucker._

And Tucker’s voice reached him, through everything, as he felt the last drops of water hit his face.

_“Fuck you!”_

It hurt. Not the knife but Tucker’s words, because he’d wished for something different. A forgiveness he wasn’t worthy of, to free him from the guilt that would follow him into death and anything beyond it. He wouldn’t get that, but at least in his last moments he’d get Tucker.

The weight lifted off of him, and he wondered if that was symbolic.

Then his head dropped to the ground and a new pain seemed to clear his mind, just for a second. It was ephemeral, but it was enough to make out Tucker’s voice over the sirens. He rolled and stared up at the ceiling, then tilted his head to see Tucker standing above him. Illuminated, by the red that no longer looked like blood on him, but something warm, something…

 _“Wash, please,_ if you can hear me—”

Tucker was knocked away, replaced by Felix, whose nose looked even more of a broken, bloodied mess than it had before. Wash tilted his head to follow Tucker as he stumbled, and some part of him felt alarmed, but it was buried, down underneath layers and layers of cold. It seemed to fade the tiniest bit when Tucker twisted, kept his footing, and threw himself back at Felix.

They clashed in the middle and Tucker threw a forearm up to block the punch Felix aimed at his throat. There was a moment where they both stopped, before Felix fell back, then moved back towards him in two quick steps that Tucker matched carefully. Another step — Felix was testing him, the same way he’d tested Wash that first day he’d found the gym, and from the look in his eyes he was surprised by what he saw.

Tucker was fast, Wash realised. Maybe he’d never seen that when they’d trained, maybe it was the adrenaline, but held up against Felix’s whirlwind movement showed it clearer than anything else he could see. It meant that Tucker was actually holding his ground. As Wash watched, he dodged a strike and shot back with one of his own.

He missed, because Felix had seen it coming, but the fact he’d managed at all was something else. Felix realised it too.

“When did _this_ happen, Tucker?”

His voice danced through the thick air between them, nestled cozily in Wash’s ears. He wished it wouldn’t. He didn’t want to hear it. He could barely even keep his head up, but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t miss any move they made because Felix could kill Tucker in a second.

“When I realised I could protect myself against people like _you,_ asshole,” Tucker spat back, but his voice was broken and there wasn’t any fury behind it. He was panting, and Wash recognised the dazed look in his eyes as he ducked underneath one of Felix’s quick punches and shot out a leg to connect with his knee.

Felix stumbled for a second before he corrected himself. As he straightened, he laughed, and Wash could see him shift back onto the offensive.

“Protect yourself?” he demanded. “Is that what you call this?”

He knocked away Tucker’s wild swing and punched him once on the injured side of his face, then again. He moved so quickly he seemed to blur, but Tucker was pulling back, moving to defend himself from Felix’s strikes. It was hard to follow, but Wash could see enough to realise that Tucker was standing his ground.

Felix was far too fast for him to get in any hits, and he’d lost the element of surprise, but even so Tucker was managing to keep himself from the worst of it. Up until Felix had pulled a knife, even Wash had had some troubles with that.

That thought seemed to drown out everything else.

_Tucker’s holding his own. Felix is a whirlwind of orange and grey and Tucker’s standing up against him._

Things seemed to fade, distant and hazy and grey, until Wash realised his eyes were drooping shut. He forced them open in tandem with the abrupt return of his hearing, and reality crept back in as he watched Felix back Tucker up into the wall.

_No, Tucker, get out—_

“Come on,” Felix laughed. “You don’t like this?”

Tucker shoved him with all his might, enough for Felix to stumble back a few steps, and Tucker darted out and around him as quickly as he could, out from in between him and the wall.

“Why can’t you just die?” Tucker’s voice was desperate but sharp again, with an anger and a hate that Wash had only begin to see in him. From where he lay, Wash could see Felix’s eyes narrow.

For once, he didn’t smile.

“You weren’t thinking that when I fucked you.”

“Burn in _hell.”_

“I’m sure I will.”

Felix’s words rang in his ears as Wash’s head fell to the ground. It dropped to the cement with a thud that should have hurt but didn’t. He opened his eyes again—

_— can’t look away Felix could hurt him could kill him could —_

—and stared blankly at an object lying on the floor only inches from his face.

A blade. _Felix’s_ blade. Wash had almost forgotten that Felix had pulled it out of his back, but he could distinctly remember that he _had._ Tucker must have disarmed him.

He heard a shout, but consciousness was fading in ebbs and flows. He was left with only some distant, half coherent remnants of thoughts.

_That’s dangerous. Better make sure Tucker doesn’t…_

_… got it off him? I never taught him that…_

_Holding his goddamn own._

He could hear someone talking, far away in the distance. Heard words being spoken, and he knew they had a meaning, knew some of it; enough to know they were important, uttered by someone who mattered to him.

A hand closed around his jaw and tilted his head up.

_“— don’t touch him! Get the fuck away from him!”_

That was Tucker’s voice, wasn’t it?

_“Why? He’s already dead.”_

__“No__ he’s _not!”_

Were they talking about him?

_“— Wash, come on!”_

He recognised his name. He knew what it meant.

_“I need you to get up!”_

His head was dropped to the ground again but he knew these words.

_“Get up, Wash, please!”_

Somehow, he did. He pulled himself to a sitting position, but nobody was paying attention to him anymore. He wondered if he’d waited too long, what had changed while he’d been dragging himself from the brink of blackness, because Tucker wasn’t even looking at him. Tucker was looking at Felix, and Felix was brandishing a knife.

Wash blinked, then looked down at the ground next to him until his hand appeared and wrapped itself weakly around a similar looking blade. Some small, tired part of his brain seemed to sigh, _of course, of course he had two blades,_ but he wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean.

He wasn’t sure of a lot of things, like how he was crawling forward, his legs trailing uselessly behind him, his right arm dragging on the ground. Blood bubbled up on his lips and it came from deep inside him, from whatever Felix had broken when he’d pushed his knife inside. He couldn’t quite breathe properly, and his legs weren’t working, and he was certain it should be hurting but he couldn’t feel anything at all.

Felix was shouting something at Tucker. The light seemed to brighten for a second, time slowing down to follow the shape of Felix’s lips as he mouthed words Washington couldn’t hear. He tried to follow them, but he was caught up in it, and the lights kept fading in and out, in and out.

He realised that it wasn’t the lights fading at all. It was his vision. _In and out,_  as he crawled forward.

It was strange, from this angle, how he could see so much, but nobody was looking down at him. He could see, as he pulled himself forward, how scared Tucker was. He could see how sharp the blade was that Felix brandished. He could __see__ how Tucker seemed to wilt in the face of it, his movements suddenly less certain, worn down by fear.

 _It’s not so bad,_ Wash wanted to reassure him. _It doesn’t even hurt. See, I can’t feel a thing—_

The expression on Tucker’s face was almost comical, his eyes wide and blown with fear. He was terrified, and Wash realised that wasn’t funny, Tucker was afraid and that wasn’t funny at all.

_Protect him._

Wash would. Wash would die for him.

Felix lunged, a swift strike forward with the knife that took him forward, but he never made it. Wash caught onto his leg with his one good arm and brought him downwards, in an agonisingly long arc as he fell towards the ground. Felix landed hard, and several things gave it away: the sickening _smack_ of his head against the hard ground, the wet skittering of the knife as it flew from his hand across the cement, Tucker’s cry.

Wash didn’t hear any of it, because he couldn’t hear a single thing over the dull drone filling his ears.

But he didn’t need to hear.

He didn’t even need to see, which was a relief because his vision was going, blacking away until he could barely see the knife as he raised it and plunged it into Felix’s leg.

_Not enough._

He pulled it out and thrust it into him again, higher, into his stomach, not too far from where Felix had thrust it into _him_ , but it still wasn’t enough. He pulled it out, and when he brought it down again into Felix’s chest, it stuck. He used it to pull himself up until he was lying flush on top of him, oblivious to Felix’s hands scrabbling blindly at his neck, his face, his hands, unfeeling to the pain of his wounds.

The blackness encroaching on his vision abated, just temporarily, but enough for him to look down and straight into Felix’s face. There was blood on his lips and the same look of terror that had haunted Tucker now widening his golden eyes. This time, it _was_ funny, and Wash smiled as he pulled the knife out of Felix’s chest and sunk it into his throat.

Felix convulsed. His hands stopped tearing at Wash’s face and dropped to wrap around his wrist, but there wasn’t any force behind it. His wide eyes shone with disbelief, blinking rapidly against the water dripping down, eyelids fluttering. He stared up at him, his hand wrapped loosely around his wrist as if he was just holdinghim.

Just _holding_ him, as Wash pushed down, bearing his weight down onto the knife, down, down, _down,_ until it cut through the muscles of Felix’s throat and tore it open.

Felix convulsed again, bucking beneath him, and finally the grip around his wrist tightened. His hand spasmed and clutched, and the broken fingers of his other hand twitched weakly and brushed against him, reached for Wash as if he were a saviour, until he released him all at once.

Wash slid the remaining inches to the ground and watched the blood spread. It made swirling patterns in the rain where it ran freely down from Felix’s chest, and slowly, Wash’s eyes followed it up.

In the dim light he could make out the heaving movement as Felix’s chest rose and fell unsteadily with bubbling, bloody gasps for air. The noise was lost beneath the echoing sirens and the endless stream of water but Wash could __see__ it, because Felix’s eyes sought his out and didn’t let him go.

He held him there, in an endless moment of blood and pain and loss and fear, until Tucker crouched between them and blocked Felix from view. The moment Felix’s eyes no longer held him, Wash's body collapsed completely, into Tucker's arms.

His name was called but he didn’t hear it, an agonised confession whispered that he never knew, and Tucker pulled him closer as Felix breathed his final breath and died alone.

* * *

 _He didn’t know how long he lay there._ Time had always been meaningless to him, but there was something special about it then, in the limited minutes and seconds that counted down to some unseen clock with his death at the end of the timer. Something meaningful.

He was dying. He supposed that was meaningful. It would mean something to Tucker, did mean something to Tucker, because he was leaning over him with his hands on his shoulders and Wash couldn’t do anything but lay there, numb, and wonder why the world was still shaking when he thought the sirens around him had stopped.

It wasn’t the world shaking him, it was Tucker. He was still there, still trying to keep Wash awake, and Wash would have told him not to but he was tired. He wouldn’t have said that if he could have anyway, because if he could have said anything it would have been _“Don’t cry, Tucker,”_ because Tucker was leaning over him and his face was wet but maybe it was just the rain, maybe it was just…

_Locus._

He slipped past so quickly that Wash was almost certain he’d imagined it. He wanted to curse his brain, tell it not to pull this shit when he was dying — at least give him something good, let him stare up at Tucker, memorise how he looked for his last dying breath—

But then Tucker was standing, tracking where he’d seen Locus disappear. He was real, he was there, and there was nothing Wash could do to protect Tucker. He’d tried his best, and his best wasn’t enough, because now he didn’t even have enough strength to hold his head up anymore.

It lolled to the side, where he could see Locus, and—

* * *

There was Locus, and he was too late.

Tucker had moved at some point, now on the other side of Wash, and he couldn’t feel Tucker’s icy hands on him but he could feel a deep throbbing pain that pulsed from within him when Tucker tried to drag him away. All he succeeded in doing was making Wash’s head fall to the side with a thud, where he peered through the dim light and the falling water to see Locus.

He had something in his hand, and it took Wash too long to realise why he’d known that was important in the first place. It was a gun. Locus was crouched over Felix’s dead body, and he was holding a gun.

Wash may have been dying but he knew pain when he saw it, and he saw it in the way Locus bent over Felix’s body just like Tucker had bent over his.

* * *

He blacked out. He didn’t quite know it, didn’t realise the time that had passed between closing his eyes and opening them again, between one blink and the next.

He could see, though, and if he could see, he had to find Tucker, had to push through the dizzy numbness to find him in the darkness. And they were there, Locus first, then Tucker. Staring at each other.

Locus was pointing the gun at him.

Tucker was crying. By some trick of the light— 

_The dark—_

_Wash’s mind—_  

It looked like Locus was, too.

* * *

_Felix's eyes had been so golden, how could someone have eyes that were so golden?_

* * *

There was a bang, and he struggled to open his eyes. Succeeded, with great difficulty, to find he couldn’t see anyone anymore. He used the last of his strength to turn his head, wondered when it had started weighing a million tonnes, and looked up to see Locus fall, the gun dropping from his hand as red spread over his clothes.

Wash wanted to sympathise, but Locus had been pointing a gun at Tucker.

 _You deserved that,_ he wanted to say. _I hope you die slowly._

He wasn’t sure if he meant that. But Locus’ head snapped backwards with a spray of red, and Wash never had a chance to say anything at all.

* * *

Then there was nothing again, until there was something, a lot of things. The water, the heaviness to his body, guards surrounding him, shouting, _Tucker._

He was leaning over him again, a jarring echo that Wash couldn’t unsee of Locus crouched over Felix. He’d shake that off soon, though, because he could finally feel it. The crossing of a line that he’d never quite made over before, the step too far that he couldn’t take back.

His time was running out. But he was spending the last of it cradled by Tucker, and there was a warmth in that that he clung to that, let it chase away the cold, let it chase away the alone.

Tucker was speaking to him, and at first, Wash couldn't make out the words. His brain was too jumbled and everything had gone wrong, but he watched, and he waited, and finally Tucker’s words came to him.

He was speaking Sangheili, the words tumbling softly from his lips. As Wash blocked all the other noise out, he realised he was singing.

* * *

He was lifted, gently, and through the cold numbness that crept black over his vision, he saw familiar curls, flattened down by the rain—

_— not rain, water, running down from the ceiling into everyone’s eyes—_

He was cradled, carefully, in Caboose’s strong arms, carried out through the blood red light.

Tucker's voice lifted and fell, and Wash felt everything within him hold on a little tighter, fight a little harder. The blackness came and went in waves, and Tucker went on speaking that language that Wash couldn't understand, except that he knew he was singing to him, comforting him, and trying to keep him safe.

Singing him into the blackness, where he was warm, and held, and loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for character death, heavy violence, blood. Please tell me if I need more.
> 
> This is a heavy chapter, the final in this arc, where it all comes together. The consequences and after effects are in the chapters to come. The end of this fic is finally on the horizon, and I'm so grateful to every single one of you who are with me.
> 
> If you're reading, please let me know what you thought. It's so important to hear back from readers, whether it be good or bad.
> 
> Thank you. <3

**Author's Note:**

> check out these sweet playlists that [SnorkleTuckington](http://8tracks.com/snorkletuckington/collections/breaking-time) made:
> 
> [breaking time](http://8tracks.com/snorkletuckington/breaking-time)   
>  [ADRENALINE](http://8tracks.com/snorkletuckington/adrenaline)   
>  [ANIMALISTIC ADDICTION](http://8tracks.com/snorkletuckington/animalistic-addiction)   
>  [morphine and bad dreams](http://8tracks.com/snorkletuckington/morphine-and-bad-dreams)
> 
>  
> 
> And check out the phenomenal art list below! <3 
> 
> [here](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/post/111802172691/hey-everyone-whos-into-tuckington-friendship-and) by [papanorth](http://papanorth.tumblr.com/),
> 
> [here](http://queerseth.tumblr.com/post/121819311447/these-situations-make-me-feel-so-cold-its-like) by [queerseth](http://queerseth.tumblr.com/),
> 
> [here](http://another-stupid-artblog.tumblr.com/image/123221116064) by [another-stupid-artblog](http://another-stupid-artblog.tumblr.com/),
> 
> [here](http://i-will-batman-you.tumblr.com/post/131921552554/i-will-batman-you-for-ragamufiin-for-their-fic) by [i-will-batman-you](http://i-will-batman-you.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [here](http://keasbeynights.tumblr.com/post/143565536426/well-i-started-drawing-a-picture-for-my-fav-fic) and [here](http://keasbeynights.tumblr.com/post/154751557601/i-drew-this-a-long-time-ago-but-apparently-never) by [keasbeyknights](http://keasbeynights.tumblr.com/)
> 
> and [here](https://bloodgulchlosers.tumblr.com/post/140950991477/alrighty-so-this-is-extremely-bad-fan-art-of-a) by [bloodgulchlosers](https://bloodgulchlosers.tumblr.com//)
> 
> also check out these commissioned art pieces for the fic by [fenmiu](http://fenmiu.tumblr.com/)!  
> [part 1(Reds and Blues) ](http://fenmiu.tumblr.com/post/145206605708/fenmiu-commission-for-my-sister-ragamuffiin-c)  
> [ part 2 (Felix and Locus)](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/post/154567569956/felix-and-locus-breaking-time-commission-by-the)
> 
> it's astounding to me, and i can't express my thankfulness enough <3 find me at [ragamuffiin](http://ragamuffiin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Broken Bits of Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704285) by [blackm00n5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackm00n5/pseuds/blackm00n5)
  * [won't find no angels selling maps to the lost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3876808) by [SnorkleShit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnorkleShit/pseuds/SnorkleShit)
  * [Only a Matter of Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238427) by [blackm00n5](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackm00n5/pseuds/blackm00n5)




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